She refused to meet my gaze as I worked, but I would be lying if I didn't admit to myself that it made me adore her all the more. The uncaring lipstick smudge, the imprecise eyelash, and the slightly crooked tooth marring her smile all held an inexact allure. Yet, in my profession flaws are not allowed to be beautiful.
Perhaps, that is why she is my favorite client. Nobody else has so effortlessly risen above our pedantic obsession with the precision of beauty. For the first time, my work mocks the canvas. This clay is too refined for tools as crude as mine.
And yet, obligations ignored have a way of returning in a manner unpleasant. She must meet their definition of perfect for the evening. Forgive me my job, my dearest. I promise we will be together, and your natural perfection restored, once the funeral is over and those fools leave the room.