When she tells me this, I think that maybe the wires have crossed because suddenly the phone receiver becomes very hot, extra heavy. I have to hold it with both hands. She doesn’t sound breathless, or worried, or distressed. It’s simply a fact.

“That’s okay,” I say, kind, humble man that I am. “It doesn’t matter much to me one way or the other.”

“What do you like most about my face?”

I get up from the bed, stand in front of the motel mirror. What is the most important feature of anyone’s face? I don’t know who would choose the skin. The eyes, of course. Mine are worn and bloodshot from the drive, from the black and endless road. Lips? Absolutely. I suck my chapped lips into my mouth. Some might choose the nose. Maybe even the ears, if they’re shaped a certain way. But the skin? No. Definitely not. I peer closer, my nose nearly kissing its own reflection, so close the tiny red veins in my skin are visible, pumping blood through one vessel to another. Keeping me alive.

“I like your eyes.”

“Generic answer. Try again.” Her voice is soft and sweet and melts into my ear like an orange dreamsicle.

“I like …” I stare down at the only polaroid I have of her. A yard of smooth, dark hair reaches her waist. She’s got a delicately upturned nose. All-seeing brown eyes. A speck of enlightenment hidden in the depths. Her lips are thin, but her wide smile covers this flaw. All of these parts make up her face, and all of these features are equally good.

“… I like your teeth, your smile. I like that you’ve got one front tooth that’s a little smaller than the rest.”

She’s silent. I imagine her in her bedroom, twisting a pink phone cord around her finger. Is she standing in front of the mirror too? I wish I was there. I wish—

“I wish you could see me now,” she says.

“When did it happen?” I ask as I sit on the edge of the bed. I kick off my shoes and lean back on the scratchy quilt comforter. My feet stretch out, heels rolling over crumbs never vacuumed up from the last guest. The beige wallpaper peels at the corners, covered in yellow, blotchy stains from years of water damage. I’m in a lonely roadside motel, half a mile off the freeway. Tomorrow, I’ll drive to her. Meet her for the first time.

She sucks in her breath, a short whistle through the crooked gap in her teeth. “Top three features. Go.”

“Lips. Teeth. Hair.” I rattle them off fast. No hesitation. I don’t care if they’re generic answers.

“What about my skin?”

“Not for me.”

She’s silent again.

And now I’m up, pacing the room as far as the phone cord will stretch. I peek out the window, between thin, papery curtains. There’s only one other car in the deserted parking lot. I think of the bent woman who checked me in, handed me a bath towel reeking of stale smoke. The sun set hours ago and the night sky smothers the dim, flickering motel lights. In the sky is a splinter of white moon. No stars. I’m in the middle of nowhere, but tomorrow, I’ll be somewhere.

“Can you see the moon right now?” I ask. There’s shuffling over the phone. In my mind’s eye she’s crossing her room to the window, looking at the same sky. I imagine her hair tied in a thick braid down her back. I try not to imagine a face with no skin.

“Yes. It’s big and bright and full.”

A different moon, I think. That’s good. If she can imagine what isn’t there, why can’t I?

“What time will you be here?” she asks, voice changing tone. There’s fear now, that I’ll never come. Suspicion that I’ve never left. I think about the things I need to do before I leave. Sleep. Shower. Shave. I want a full tank of gas when I pick her up. So we can go, go, go.

“Seven o’clock.” It’s past midnight now. Time is catching up. “I take it back,” I say.

“Take what back?”

“Top three features. I want a do-over.”

“Okay.”

“Number one. Your voice. I could listen to you until the end of time. Until the end of the moon.”

She hesitates. I think I can hear her smile. “And the other two?”

“I’m still thinking about those.”

“Where are we going to go?”

 My map is splayed out on the round, wooden table, my keys, wallet and several receipts scattered atop. Four days of travel. Three nights of scummy motels. Too many meals in microwaved paper cups. Time has passed at an injured pace until now, almost suddenly, I’m only fifty-three miles away. If I’d pushed on … hell, I could have made it to her place tonight.

“We’re going to the moon,” I say, glancing back out the window. And now my moon is hers, big and bright and full. It’s shining so vividly I could turn off all the lights in this room. So I do. “Just you and me, far away from all of this. Our feet covered in lunar dust. We won’t need to bring anything but our own air.”

She giggles at this, and oh— “Your laugh,” I say. “That’s number two.”

“That’s cheating! My voice and laugh are the same thing.”

“No.” I’m shaking my head, even though she can’t see me. “I couldn’t live without either.”

“You’ve only got one left then,” she says. “Choose wisely.” She’s using her stern, teacher voice now, and I imagine her holding up one perfect finger. I almost choose her finger, but I won’t be tricked so easily.

“You know, you were able to get rid of something all women yearn to conceal.”

“What’s that?”

“Pores. Women slather their face in all kinds of creams and masks, trying to erase their holes. I’ll bet they’re jealous, that’s why they won’t talk to you anymore. You’re poreless.”

No laugh for this one. I don’t hear a silent smile either.

My throat gets drier the longer she doesn’t speak. I swallow. The darkened television set reflects a distorted view of me, my legs a little too long, my torso squashed.

From a tray on the desk, I grab a Styrofoam cup and dip it into the bucket of ice, toss back a few cubes, and chew.

“I think I’ll pass on the sound of you crunching ice,” she says. “I’ll take your nose instead.”

“My nose?”

“Sure. It’s my favorite kind of triangle. An isosceles, if you will. I don’t think I’ve ever seen something more proportional.”

“I’ve been waiting all night to talk about geometry!” Time is passing too quickly. An alarm clock taunts me with its red, blinking numbers, and I turn it face-down. Suddenly I don’t want to leave. I want to stay here forever, spending the rest of my days and nights listening to her voice, here in this empty motel. “Tell me more.”

“Have I ever told you about Hooper’s paradox?”

“No.” I’m smiling now, the corner of my stretched mouth touching the receiver. I love when she talks like this. Lucky for her, I’ve decided to be her lifelong student.

“It’s a mathematical fallacy.” She pauses, allowing room for my mind to expand. She’s a good teacher, because without saying a word, she can tell I need a little more explanation. “Like dividing by zero.”

“Ah.”

“This is going to get me all worked up. I need a whiteboard—it’s hard to explain over the phone.”

“Try.”

A slow exhale. She’s thinking. Figuring it out in her head. “Well, there’s still debate on who discovered this. A few hundred years ago, this man, William Hooper, published a mathematical fallacy—a paradox, if you will. In the book, he shows a rectangle that he’s divided into four parts, two of which are triangles. The other two parts are these strange, misshapen rectangles. When you try to reassemble the rectangle, the area is bigger than it was before.”

“I like that.”

She laughs. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I like the idea of trying to put together something that’s been taken apart, only to find that it’s bigger—arguably more whole than it was before. I get why you like geometry so much. It can be very philosophical.” I pause. I look down at the photograph, drenched in moonlight. She’s no longer smiling. In it, she has no skin. The photo falls from my hand. I move to the map and trace a shaking finger along our route. “You know, we could make a diversion in the plan. It might only take a few extra hours, a day at most. And I could … I could help you find it. I could—”

“No.” Her voice is curt.

“Are you sure? It would be no trouble at all.”

“You won’t find it.” She pauses and I watch my crooked reflection in the ice bucket stare back at me. “It’s probably taken a ferry to Canada by now. It could be as far as Quebec. Maybe it’s even crossed the sea.”

“What happened?” And the question feels too sudden. It echoes in my head.

She’s mute and I’m scared I’ve lost her, afraid she’s closed up inside her shell. I try to think of something else to say, another question, another passing thought, but I’m just as reticent as her. I’ve ruined it, destroyed how far we’ve come.

She swallows, hesitates. “Do you think I’m a bad person?”

Now she sniffles, and I know the tears are rolling. I don’t want to imagine the salty sting on her exposed nerves, her blue, pulsing veins. I don’t want to see the trickle of tears down her pink muscle, her fatty tissues. I don’t want her to hurt more than she already does.

“For what?” I cradle the receiver against my ear as I get up once again, look in the mirror. There I am. There I’ve always been. My reflection wavers, like it knows this image doesn’t belong to me anymore.

“Leaving it behind.”

“That’s three,” I say. There’s not enough ice in this bucket, in the whole motel, in all the polar regions of the world, to wet my throat. My voice is the gray dust of the moon.

“I don’t get it.”

“Your third feature. Your bravery. It’s incredible. I’ve never met anyone like you.” I think my words will land, proud of myself for finally saying the right thing, but she pivots.

“When are you picking me up?” Now her voice is urgent; she’s done with this conversation, ready to leave. She’s ready to go. There’s a dark gloom that fills the space between our breaths.

“One more sleep, and I’ll be there. One more sleep and you’ll see me.”

“It’s gone,” she says.

“Yes.”

“Will you close your eyes?”

“Okay.” I do what she asks. I imagine petting her smooth hair. I think of her smile, her dark eyes. I see a face with no skin.

“I mean, tomorrow. When you pick me up. I want it to be like this forever. Just my voice and yours.”

“Okay. But how will I drive?”

“Maybe I can drive,” she says.

“You can drive us to the moon?”

We’re both silent and I hold my breath. I don’t want to hang up. My eyes are closed. I’m still wearing the dirty clothes I drove in, reeking of wet, July heat. I couldn’t be bothered to change. Called her as soon as I got here.

“I don’t want you to see me like this.” She’s crying again. I’ve done something wrong.

“I already see you. I can see you right now, with my eyes closed.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.”

“I mean … about … you know …”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” She takes a quick breath and it sounds like a gasp. “What if there’s someone else?”

“There’s no one else.”

“Someone we meet on the way. Or someone you know from your past. Someone with … someone with skin.”

“They may have skin, but I’ll bet they have no voice.”

“Everyone has a voice.”

“No. No one has a voice like yours.”

“How can I trust you?”

“You can watch from your window. You can peek through the blinds. It won’t be so bad.”

“And the photograph? It’s the last photo I took before …”

“I know. I’ll be staring at it the whole time, wishing it was your voice.” She laughs and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard and the decision is made right then. It’s been hanging this whole time above us and now it’s real, a solid lump of lunar rock in my hands. “I might have to move your laugh up to spot number one,” I say. “It’s a tough call.”

“You know, none of those are features. They’re all things you can’t see.”

“Just because you can’t see something doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

“It’ll be painful,” she says. “I don’t want to see you in pain.”

“Maybe one day we’ll see them together, setting sail across the Labrador Sea.”

“Maybe,” she says, as if considering. But she’s not thinking about this. “What about—what about a blindfold?” Her voice is hopeful. High-pitched. And oh, how I love her for it, but this idea can’t go any farther.

“No,” I say. “We’ve talked about this before. I’ll peel that blindfold off as soon as I hear your footsteps, as soon as I hear your voice. When the door opens, I won’t be able to help myself. No matter what happens, I’ve come to see the real you.”

“Maybe it won’t be so bad,” she says, wistful. I close my eyes again, letting her voice fill the entire room, my entire world.

“I’ll hear you tomorrow,” I say. And there’s the sound of her mouth widening, of that special toothy grin. I hear her voice even after we hang up. I listen for it in my darkest dreams. I hear it with my eyes closed, standing in the deep craters of the moon.