I LOVE WATCHING HIM while he eats. He takes it seriously. He forgets himself. His fingers are long and slender - guitarist's fingers. The tips of his left hand are calloused and the nails of his right hand are sharp and jagged. I tell him we should get a manicure together, but he laughs at the suggestion. He is sloppy in his appearance but meticulous by nature. He’s a classic artist, focused on what he’s eating. His vanity is intellectual. I have always liked vain men. I understand their vanity. He eats with his fingers. He uses them like fine tools. He balls up the rice in the palm of his hand and rolls it in the sauce, and then lifts it into his mouth. He picks at the food, making combinations - some familiar, some new, some favourite. He doesn’t talk while he eats, he grunts. It’s a quiet pastime. I don’t eat much. I smoke while he eats, which he hates, but tolerates, for me. We are having dinner under the stars at our favourite street stall, it is our anniversary, and later we will go home to our families. I give him his present.
4 mc
4 mc
