Tie Domi tilts back his head, pressing a finger against the tip of his oft-busted schnoz.
Kind of like saying “AH’’ with his nostrils.
I say ACCHHH! Nose porn!
A dark empty cavity. No tissue, no septum.
Face now mere inches away, I examine Domi’s mug for remnants from a lifetime of enforcer hockey. Tapestry of scars across the top of his lips, cuticle indentations above the eyes, trellis of fading stitch marks spilling down one cheek.