His face was unremarkable except for the fact that you would suddenly, after a long period of time, begin to notice that it was slightly tight at the edges, and the shape slightly, off. And you’d look at his face and at his hairline and at the point just above and to the right of his ear and then you would mentally shake yourself because the tightness and the shape were not noteworthy and, possibly, were not even present. But the next time you saw him and, actually every time after that, the slightly unsettling image of a road accident would spring unbidden to mind. A brief tumbling skid of an image: black tarmac, blue sky, black tarmac, blue, black, blue, raw, red. An image shoved hurriedly aside and ignored, but an image and a point of view that once experienced refused to ever leave completely. And if the act of observation changes that which is being observed, then the man’s right eye did begin to cloud slightly, and the skin around the hinge of the jaw line on that side of the face grew shinier and more pockmarked in a destruction of the epidermis entirely unrelated to hormones or zits or prepubescence. And as you looked and you saw this you would then look again and see, nothing. Nothing wrong, nothing, different, nothing strange. And later you would understand that it was this constantly blurred shifting, this inability to examine objectively or to determine a single viewpoint, it was this was that threw and unnerved you, made you unsure and uneasy. But at the time, you didn’t realise this.