When my eyes fluttered open this morning, I was facing his shoulder, and I got the sudden urge to count the freckles scattered about his arm. It felt like the number was something I should know.
It is an odd thing, how you come to know a lover's body. It is not a cold process of memorization. Even if I had a smudge of artistic talent, I couldn't simply sketch every curve from memory. It is more a process of intuition.
My hands just know what feels right. They sense where it is supposed to be soft or firm, smooth or rough, where my palm is supposed to curve. My fingertips rise in anticipation of the edge of a scar, and linger where something has changed, like the bump on an ankle, before I have even processed its presence.