I woke up in the middle of the night, during a storm. I reached for you, I wanted to touch your face--your perfect face. My hand searched your body, trying to locate it. My hand moved along your leg, your kneecap, the purple bump on your kneecap. I found your chest, your neck. I felt so close. But your face was nowhere to be found.

Thinking it was a dream, I fell back asleep. In the morning I woke, and rubbed my eyes. You were lying on your stomach next to me, motionless. I turned you over to get on top of you, and then noticed that the place where your face had been was now empty. Your face was gone.

I looked around the room for your face. My eyes settled on a transparent jar, like a fish bowl, filled half-way with water. There I saw your face. Your face never looked more beautiful. Because you had surgically removed it yourself, because your perfect mouth was no longer connected to vocal chords, you had left a note to explain your actions. It read: "For years men and women have commented on my face--how perfect it is, how flawless, how unique. I often wondered whether they would feel the same way if my face was detached from my body, if it was not always supported with my body. Perhaps, I even ventured to hope, if my face was not contending with my body for supremacy, it would be even more beautiful, if that s possible.
So I tore my fucking face off. I hope you still love me."

I smiled, and said to the face in the jar; Jacques, the second thing you said is right. Your face is even more beautiful without your body weighing it down.

The face smiled.

I could not keep Jacques' face a secret. Soon people came to see him--his friends, his so-called friends. They told reporters, editors, critics, Deborah Norville. Soon everyone wanted Jacques' face. Just his face. Both the Whitney and the Guggenheim fought for it. Then MOMA gave it a six-month run that met with unparalleled acclaim. Critics debated the significance of Jacques' face. As with all moments of glory, however, this one was short-lived. The commercial value of Jacques' face had increased exorbitantly. Criminals, who saw nothing in his face but a monetary value, attempted to steal the face while it was on exhibit at the Prado in Madrid.

Their scheme was met with a police response, and one of the bungling crooks dropped Jacques' face while fleeing, leaving a sole imprint on his lower jaw. Suddenly, the bubble of Jacques' new-found fame burst. The sole mark ruined the heretofore unattained beauty of the face. Some critics tried to do the flawed masterpiece thing, but his face hadn't been a masterpiece long enough for anyone to take their bait. Jacques became a freak, a circus oddity, despised by those who months before had praised him.

My love remained, but Jacques was in no mood for it. One day I woke up in the disheveled flat we were forced to live after Jacques lost his job at CNBC, and found that Jacques had inhaled water intentionally and drowned. He left a note by his side, his last testament. It simply read, "My face sucks."