Coy wattle at the bottom of the ear, it has nothing to do with the workings of the inner canal, the stirrup, hammer and anvil in their twenty-four-hour shifts. In fact, it has no job. The size of a weasel’s nose, but it cannot smell. Larger than the ear of a mouse, but it cannot hear. It is a small nothingness, an afterthought, a left-over bit pinched to the auricular like a smidgen of dough flattened by a baker’s thumb. Its only purpose is to be delectable. Even on the ear of a man, it is a plush exposed clitoris made lusciously to fit the tip of a tongue.