DeMarco.

My friend DeMarco sure was ugly. His face was one whole mix up with all his distinguishing features like his eyes and nose and mouth squashed up and packed into a dark, knotted, corner just below his right cheekbone.
Whenever I asked DeMarco what it was like having such an unusual facial arrangement, he said that it made it difficult to see things and that he wished I wouldn’t always stand in his blind spot.
To add to this confusion DeMarco’s hair and eyebrows and moustache all sat on top of one another in the centre of his forehead. In a vain effort to stop this looking so slapdash, he styled his tower of locks and tresses into one huge, ginger, hair horn using a brand-name sticky pomade that would leave grease marks all over my walls and fabrics.

A lot of the time, when we went outside to buy food or look at the sky, people would stop us in the street to get a closer look. The old women and some of the taller children would sometimes laugh and poke DeMarco in his ugly face with their fingers and pens, thinking that he was wearing some kind of grotesquely sick mask. They would always apologise when they saw DeMarco’s cheeks turn red and his sunken, bloodshot, eyes emit a salty stream of tears that travelled uncomfortably down his hideous face.
As I led DeMarco away I always made sure that I told these people not to bother apologising, and that really, they shouldn’t worry. After all, I’d remember to mention, we were both extremely happy just the way we were.