Like and Love by Michelle D’costa

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?