Dave

The mortician noticed that Dave had a very Greek nose: beautiful, compact and fruitful. She was very saddended by the deep worry-wrinkle on his forehead and imagined him laboring over a matzo ball soup in the kitchen of his Deli. The science experiment of it all - the 1 inch matzo meal balls dropping to the depths of the boiling water, only to rise seconds later and bobble at the top, slowly growing to the size of an orange. Bobble. Bobble. Bobble.

On his hand, he had a mole in the shape of the state of Arkansas and she tapped it three times with her index finger. She wondered what color were his eyes. Were they blue? Were they Hazel? Were they like her own, brown and dark and full of intention? She didn't really want to know, after all, his fingernails were clean and his belly button was in place.

She figured Dave was one in a million and no older than 53.