Auberge had always understood that beauty was fleeting.
He had read the books. He had attended the workshops. He had purchased the organic serums, the sustainably harvested facial oils, and a jade roller whose provenance had been verified by three independent ethical sourcing organizations.
He had meditated on impermanence.
He had accepted that all living things must eventually return to the earth.
He had even made peace with the fact that his houseplants occasionally died despite his best efforts.
What he had not accepted was the possibility that he might develop crow's feet before the age of thirty-five.
The first sign had appeared on a Thursday morning.
Auberge was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, examining the results of a new holistic skincare regimen, when he noticed two faint lines at the outer corners of his eyes.
He smiled experimentally.
The lines appeared.
He stopped smiling.
They disappeared.
He smiled again.
They returned.
Auberge staggered backward.
“Oh, my God.”
Ruslan, who was brushing his teeth, glanced at him through the mirror.
“What?”
“My face is malfunctioning.”
Ruslan spat into the sink.
“Your face is what?”
Auberge pointed at his reflection.
“LOOK.”
Ruslan examined the offending area.
“Those are crow's feet.”
Auberge gripped the counter.
“Don't say that.”
“What should I call them?”
“Not that.”
“They're literally called crow's feet.”
Auberge turned toward him with the expression of a man who had just discovered that his partner was secretly working for Big Pharma.
“I need you to leave.”
“It's my bathroom too.”
“NOT ANYMORE.”
By noon, Auberge had canceled his afternoon meditation session, placed his skincare products in quarantine, and booked an appointment with his primary care physician.
He was going to need a professional.
Possibly several.
Dr. Patel had been Auberge's primary care physician for four years.
During that time, she had treated him for sinus infections, vitamin deficiencies, and a memorable episode of gastrointestinal distress caused by a fermented botanical supplement he had purchased from a wellness influencer in Marin County.
She had also endured a forty-minute consultation concerning whether his prescription antihistamine was compatible with his spiritual commitment to living lightly upon the earth.
She considered herself a patient woman.
“Auberge,” she said, reviewing his chart, “what brings you in today?”
He sat down carefully.
“Doctor, I have concerns about my facial health.”
“Are you experiencing pain?”
“No.”
“Vision changes?”
“No.”
“Swelling, numbness, or weakness?”
“No.”
“Then what seems to be the problem?”
Auberge leaned forward.
“My crow's feet.”
Dr. Patel looked at him.
“Your what?”
“My crow's feet.”
She examined the outer corners of his eyes.
“Oh. Those are normal expression lines. Everyone develops them to varying degrees.”
Auberge stared at her.
“Everyone?”
“Yes.”
“Even people who eat organic?”
“Yes.”
“Even people who meditate?”
“Yes.”
“Even people who have never consumed animal products?”
Dr. Patel paused.
“Yes, Auberge.”
He sat back in his chair.
The news was catastrophic.
“So there's nothing I can do?”
“That's not what I said. If the lines bother you, there are cosmetic options. Botox, for example, can temporarily reduce the appearance of dynamic wrinkles. We can discuss the benefits, risks, and alternatives if you'd like.”
Auberge gripped the arms of his chair.
“Botox.”
“Yes.”
“An injectable pharmaceutical.”
“Yes.”
“For my face.”
“For the appearance of the lines around your eyes.”
He looked at her as though she had just proposed amputating his personality.
“Doctor, I need to ask you something.”
“Of course.”
“Will the Botox be sustainably sourced?”
Dr. Patel blinked.
“I'm sorry?”
“The Botox. Where does it come from? What is its carbon footprint? Does the manufacturer use renewable energy? Are the packaging materials recyclable? And, perhaps most importantly, has the supply chain been audited for cruelty?”
Dr. Patel set down her tablet.
“Botox is a prescription medical product. Its manufacturing is regulated, but I don't have a complete sustainability audit of the manufacturer's supply chain available to give you.”
Auberge went pale.
“You don't know?”
“I don't have that information.”
“You would offer me an injectable substance without knowing whether it was ethically sourced?”
“I am offering you an elective cosmetic treatment. You are under no obligation to have it.”
Auberge stood.
“Doctor, with respect, I believe you have underestimated the severity of my condition.”
“Auberge, you have some fine lines around your eyes.”
“Stage Four.”
“I'm sorry?”
“Stage Four Crow's Feet.”
Dr. Patel stared at him.
“That's not a recognized medical staging system.”
“Not YET.”
He swept out of the office.
Dr. Patel made a note in his chart.
Patient concerned about cosmetic facial lines. Discussed elective treatment options. Patient departed before completion of visit.
Then, after a moment, she added:
Patient has strong preferences regarding product sustainability.
Gaius was in the kitchen when Auberge returned home.
He was carefully inspecting an avocado for bruising, having recently completed a household procurement course following the previous month's Avocado Toast Incident.
Auberge entered wearing sunglasses.
It was 4:30 in the afternoon, and the kitchen blinds were closed.
Gaius looked up.
“What happened?”
Auberge removed his sunglasses.
“I'm dying.”
Gaius dropped the avocado.
Ruslan appeared from the living room.
“Who's dying?”
“ME.”
Ruslan looked Auberge up and down.
“Did you finally read the ingredients on your collagen supplement?”
“Worse.”
Gaius rushed forward.
“Tell us.”
Auberge took a trembling breath.
“I have Stage Four Crow's Feet.”
Ruslan closed his eyes.
“Oh, for God's sake.”
Gaius caught his arm.
“Don't dismiss his experience.”
“I'm not dismissing his experience. I'm dismissing the staging system.”
Auberge clutched his chest.
“Even you?”
Ruslan immediately regretted speaking.
Gaius led Auberge to the sofa, where he was provided with a glass of filtered water and a sustainably sourced cotton blanket.
“Let's take this one step at a time,” Gaius said. “What did the doctor say?”
“She offered me Botox.”
Ruslan frowned.
“That's a treatment option, not a diagnosis.”
“She offered me a treatment for a condition that she refuses to acknowledge is serious.”
“Because it's not a disease!”
“HOW WOULD YOU KNOW? YOU'RE NOT A DERMATOLOGIST.”
Ruslan opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Looked at Gaius.
Gaius gave a small, sympathetic nod.
Auberge began crying.
Within fifteen minutes, Gaius had convened an emergency household meeting.
Within thirty minutes, he had expanded it into a conference.
By 6:00 p.m., invitations had been sent to fourteen friends, three acquaintances from the Castro, and a woman named Meredith who had once facilitated a group meditation in Golden Gate Park.
The invitation read:
URGENT CONFERENCE: STAGE FOUR CROW'S FEET AND THE FUTURE OF OUR THROUPLE
Dear friends and members of our chosen family,
We regret to announce that Auberge has received devastating news concerning the progression of his facial aging. While the medical establishment has yet to recognize the severity of the situation, we believe it is essential to create a compassionate space in which we can collectively examine the emotional, relational, and environmental implications.
Attendance is strongly encouraged.
Please bring a reusable water bottle.
Vegan refreshments will be provided.
No conventional anti-aging products will be permitted on the premises.
In solidarity,
Gaius
At 7:00 p.m., the living room was full.
Auberge sat at the center of a circle of meditation cushions, wearing a cream-colored linen outfit and an expression of profound spiritual injury.
Behind him hung a handmade banner reading:
WE HOLD SPACE FOR THE FACE WE ONCE KNEW.
Gaius stood beside a projector.
Ruslan had been assigned responsibility for refreshments, which consisted of sliced organic pears, raw almonds, and a pitcher of cucumber water.
He had also brought a packet of ordinary supermarket crackers.
Gaius confiscated them at the door.
“We discussed this.”
“They're crackers.”
“They contain palm oil.”
“They contain wheat.”
“Ruslan.”
Ruslan surrendered the packet.
The conference began with a moment of silence.
It lasted four minutes because Auberge insisted that three minutes was insufficient to honor the emotional gravity of his situation.
Gaius then approached the projector.
“Thank you all for coming. We are gathered here tonight to address a crisis that affects not only Auberge, but the structural integrity of our relationship.”
A friend raised a hand.
“Sorry. His wrinkles affect your relationship?”
Gaius nodded gravely.
“Every relationship exists within a network of mutual expectations, shared values, and evolving physical realities.”
Meredith, the meditation facilitator, murmured, “Beautifully put.”
Ruslan whispered, “Please don't encourage him.”
Gaius advanced to the first slide.
It showed a photograph of Auberge at twenty-five.
The second slide showed Auberge at thirty-one.
The third showed a magnified image of the outer corners of his eyes.
A collective gasp filled the room.
Someone began crying.
Auberge dabbed his own eyes with a reusable handkerchief.
“Please,” he whispered. “I don't want you to remember me this way.”
“Darling,” Meredith said, reaching for his hand, “we remember your whole being.”
“But what if my whole being is no longer photogenic?”
Meredith had no answer.
Gaius advanced to the next slide.
THE FIVE STAGES OF CROW'S FEET: A PROPOSED FRAMEWORK
Stage One: The Whisper.
Stage Two: The Noticeable Disturbance.
Stage Three: The Crisis of Self-Recognition.
Stage Four: The Existential Emergency.
Stage Five: Acceptance, or Elective Intervention.
A friend stared at the screen.
“Who developed this?”
Gaius pointed toward Auberge.
“He did.”
Auberge sat straighter.
“I believe it is important to recognize that aging is a journey, and that each stage requires its own emotional accommodations.”
“Is Stage Five a real thing?” someone asked.
“It will be,” Auberge replied.
Ruslan put his face in his hands.
The discussion proceeded to the ethical implications of Botox.
Gaius had prepared a list of questions for the group to consider.
“First, we must acknowledge that cosmetic medicine exists within a broader cultural framework that places disproportionate value on youth.”
Several people nodded.
“Second, we must consider the environmental impact of pharmaceutical manufacturing.”
More nodding.
“Third, we must ask whether Auberge's desire to pursue treatment reflects his authentic personal preferences or an internalized response to societal beauty standards.”
Auberge raised his hand.
“I would like to clarify that my desire to pursue treatment is entirely authentic.”
“Of course,” Gaius replied. “But how can we know?”
Auberge stared at him.
“Because I want it.”
“That's a starting point.”
“It's the entire point.”
Gaius looked momentarily unsettled.
Ruslan seized the opportunity.
“Can we please establish that nobody here is obligated to get Botox, nobody is obligated to avoid Botox, and nobody is obligated to hold a conference about Botox?”
The room fell silent.
Meredith spoke softly.
“I wonder whether your frustration is masking a deeper fear of change.”
Ruslan looked at her.
“I wonder whether your hourly rate is masking a deeper fear of having a regular job.”
Meredith gasped.
Gaius intervened.
“We are not going to shame anyone for their emotional responses.”
“Excellent,” Ruslan replied. “Then I would like to express mine by going home.”
He was reminded that he was already home.
The conference continued.
At 9:15 p.m., the group moved to the question of sustainability.
Gaius had contacted Dr. Patel's office to request additional information about the proposed treatment.
The office had not provided a comprehensive sustainability audit.
This was, in Gaius's view, unacceptable.
“We cannot ethically proceed,” he announced, “until we understand the environmental implications of the product.”
A friend raised a hand.
“Is Auberge actually getting Botox?”
Auberge looked offended.
“I am exploring my options.”
“Then why are we discussing this as though it's an international treaty?”
“Because my face is at stake.”
Ruslan stood up.
“I would like to propose a radical alternative.”
Everyone turned toward him.
“We could ask Auberge what he wants, let him make an informed decision with his doctor, and then go out for dinner.”
The room was stunned.
Meredith whispered, “That feels very individualistic.”
Ruslan stared at her.
“It is his face.”
Auberge began to cry again.
Gaius advanced to the final slide.
PROPOSED RESOLUTION
-
Auberge will not be pressured into or out of cosmetic treatment.
-
The household will investigate the available evidence regarding the treatment's risks, benefits, and environmental credentials.
-
All members of the throuple will commit to affirming one another's appearance without unsolicited commentary.
-
The household will refrain from developing additional medical staging systems without professional consultation.
The fourth provision had been added by Ruslan without authorization.
Auberge refused to endorse it.
The conference adjourned at 10:07 p.m.
No one had eaten the pears.
Three days later, Auberge returned to Dr. Patel.
He had prepared a list of questions concerning the treatment's effects, risks, alternatives, and manufacturing.
Dr. Patel listened patiently.
She explained that Botox could temporarily reduce certain dynamic wrinkles, that treatment carried potential side effects, and that there was no medical necessity for Auberge to receive it.
Auberge nodded.
“I appreciate your transparency.”
“Of course.”
“And I understand that you cannot guarantee the product's environmental credentials.”
“Correct.”
He took a deep breath.
“I have decided to proceed with the consultation regarding cosmetic treatment.”
“That's your choice. We can discuss whether it's appropriate for you.”
Auberge smiled.
For the first time in days, he felt hopeful.
Then Dr. Patel added, “And I would encourage you to be realistic about what the treatment can achieve.”
Auberge froze.
“Realistic?”
“Yes.”
“You mean I might still have wrinkles?”
“Everyone has skin texture, Auberge.”
He gripped the armrest.
“Even after treatment?”
“Even after treatment.”
Auberge stared at her.
Then, very quietly, he asked:
“Doctor, is there a support group?”
Dr. Patel considered the question.
“I imagine there might be.”
Auberge nodded solemnly.
“Excellent. I'll organize one.”
That evening, Gaius received a message from Auberge.
Darling, I have decided to establish the Bay Area Coalition for Ethical Facial Preservation.
Gaius replied immediately.
Wonderful. We should develop a charter.
Ruslan, who had been sitting beside Gaius on the sofa, read the message over his shoulder.
“No.”
Gaius was already opening a document.
“We'll need a mission statement.”
“No.”
“Membership criteria.”
“Absolutely not.”
“A sustainability policy.”
Ruslan stood up.
“I am going to eat a conventional cracker.”
Gaius looked horrified.
“Ruslan, we discussed the palm oil.”
Ruslan walked into the kitchen.
He opened the cupboard.
He took out the crackers.
He ate three of them.
Then he returned to the living room and announced:
“I would like to convene a resolution circle regarding the emotional harm caused by unsolicited ethical oversight.”
Gaius closed the document.
Auberge, who had arrived to discuss the coalition's branding, began to cry.
It was going to be another very long evening.