I met a man with three eyes once, two on his face and one he called hidden

by maddrunkgenius

He said he’d show me the third in private sometime, if I liked and would ask him. I declined, but amiably so as not to offend him and his gracious offer.

He smiled and nodded knowingly, but what he knew, I knew not. Some things I don’t mind not knowing. The world should retain some air of mystery, after all.

He walked away and left me there, wondering, belatedly, just how he got to be so ocularly-endowed. Born or grown or added surgically, or even appeared one day to be discovered.

I tell people this sometimes and they ask me where the eye was, and perhaps I should have asked him. But I didn’t care then, and still do not. People ask how he looked, and I say, “Average.” Because he did, and if he hadn’t told me about his (…what’s the nice word for deformity?), I never would have suspected.

That’s the thing about the fantastic. It often travels incognito.