Not often - once in two or three months - I'll encounter a man who has the mark.
As our eyes meet, his hand goes up to his cheek, and I find myself mimicking the motion; then, knowing, he turns and hurries off.
Some of these men must be married - what stories do they tell their wives?
[I don't have that problem - Marci is just an occasional girl friend, with her own dark, unexplained secrets.]
Two or three months - that's how long the mark lasts from those pointy, piercing teeth, and as it fades the yearning gets stronger, deeper, more urgent for another tryst with my inhuman paramour.
Update, 10/18, just before midnight: Since first posting, I've made a couple of slight editorial changes so that it will be clear [I hope] that Marci is the protagonist's occasional human lover, and not the antecedent of the final sentence.
Update II, 11/19, mid afternoon:
Behold all of our greatest achievements.
Bask in the aural glory of our symphonies.
Delight your eyes with visions of our art, architecture and sculpture.
Gaze in wonder at the sophistication of our technical accomplishments.
Every bit of it is the work of human hands.