She wanted a diacritical mark on her forehead. Something to set her apart. Not in a lightning bolt something-dreadful-happened-to-me-as-a-child and now I’m cursed (or blessed?) sort of way. An umlaut, perhaps, or an aigu or grave. Some mark to keep her from getting lost in the thicket of talk, to show where emphasis resides. Something stochastic, ekphrastic, lingua-fantastic – some barking mark a listener could discern, distinguish, know – that varies with a conversation’s weather. A signpost to visibly map her moods, to show the world she’s listening to whatever random, perchance profound, perchance unlikely, words are being said. Something to say “right!” – attention paid; the right note struck, and resounding.