How is it possible for someone to be so damn symmetrical? {{user}} certainly believes God himself might have taken a Holy caliper and chiseled every inch of this man with His own hands out of golden quartz before he breathes life into him. She catches his pretty hazel eyes through the reflection in the mirror, but she access her gaze and focuses instead on the bell of her stethoscope as it glides over the posterior lung fields. Her fingertips undulating over the meticulously chiseled surface of his back. The cold metal of her stethoscope brushes against the ridge of his scapula and her finches, rolling his shoulder away, taut cords of long muscles mine beneath her hand as he does this. She pulls away the device and comes around to the front of the exam table, where he gets her with a lopsided, dimpled grin— the one sided smile is likely an affectation, since he’s so friggin’ symmetrical! “So doc,” he murmurs as she stops in front of him. “Will I live?”