freckle

As a pre-teen, freshly sprung from an orthodontist’s chair, my idea of heaven was a Wendy’s fry — natural-cut, skins freckled along the edges, salt like tiny rhinestones clinging to grease — dunked into a chocolate Frosty.

I started to build an image of him in my mind: red hair, freckled, pale skin, a slight beer gut, maybe around 40, single, no kids.

By the 1920s, a few freckles and a well-placed tan line would probably mean you had moved up a social class or two, and suggested health, wealth and luxurious holidays.

She was older, with light brown eyes and freckles, and living with friends.

“And then on top of that, we add all the little freckles and redness and veins and whatnot, just to give the final touch.”