In some ways, we discovered it together. He had always thought it was a mole, a mere blip of melanin, nestled in the soft fuzz on the right side of his chest. I thought it was something better, more exclusive, just as pointless. As we lay one morning, my head on his chest, his fingers in my hair, I caressed the tiny blemish and thought about portents, omens, children born under the caul. What did this mark mean for my love? Who shared this strange mutation, and what paths did they meander down? My own pale skin looked featureless and dull next to his, and I wished I had a special mark of my own.