He liked the way her chopstick-like fingers brushed away her bangs so very lightly every five seconds but he loved the way her face twitched every time she was planning to lift her fingers to her forehead.
He liked the way she slipped her bathing soap (Fa, she didn’t believe in changing soap brands, it harmed the skin or maybe she just believed in consistency like him but was afraid to admit it) so delicately on her skin, waiting for it to slide across from her palm to the crook of her arm, in no hurry, as if she had all the time in the world to pamper herself; even better, play with herself, unlike other women he had observed, who hastily scrub their skin as if they were competing with one another; but he loved the way she entered her pale blue tub, her spine neither erect nor stooped. Just a spine with knobs peeking through her pale (not in a bad way, transparent is beautiful, she has nothing to hide) skin. He could count them just as an observer. Not to forget the beautiful web of veins that mapped her body. He could take hours trying to figure them out. Their pattern. What were they trying to tell him?
He liked the way her handwriting shifted when she was tense but he loved the way her forehead crinkled before that. He liked the way she stood before her full-length mirror totally nude, checking out her body for any beauty spots she must have missed but he loved the way she looked left and right consciously before doing so even though she knew she was all alone. He liked the predictability of her moves but he loved that she didn’t mind that he knew so much about her. Or did she? Mind? Not that he cared. Now it was too late to stop. Liking.
Loving.
Now it was time to get her. For real. He couldn’t bear the distance any longer. Would she be impressed with his knowledge of her or would she be put off? He would just have to find out so he told her. Bluntly.
‘I want you.’ Could he predict her reaction? She didn’t give him a chance.
‘You already have me.’ She replied.
Maybe she was fed up of him only predicting and not making a move. He liked it.
Then a voice rose above hers. ‘GET OUT OF YOUR ROOM! HOW LONG WILL YOU BE STUCK IN THERE? YOU KNOW IF YOU DON’T COME OUT WE WON’T BE ABLE TO HELP YOU. PLEASE CO-OPERATE.’
That was exactly what he was doing. Co-operating. Only not with them (Those people who were against his and her union). But with her. Forever.
The frame slipped from the wall. Its surface cracked. He shuddered from the sudden movement. But he recovered quickly. Lifting her up so tenderly in his palms. He could still see her beauty through the cracks. Wasn’t that love? In beauty and in sickness. In joy and in pain? She looked even more beautiful now. Her eyes sad, their roles reversed, she wanted him to accept her. Now that she knew she was no longer desirable.
He loved it.
About the Author
Michelle D’costa is an Indian, born and raised in Bahrain. She enjoys editing (Decades Review), dancing (freestyle), reading and writing (prose and poetry).
