I first fell in love when I was eight, with a multitude of glass bangles that made a pretty jangling sound whenever she moved her hand. A few days later, my heart had been stolen away by a pout outside the classroom door.
My friends slowly started keeping track – there was the hook nose that her tongue kept trying to lick ice cream off, there were the two pairs of dimpled cheeks (one male, one female), after which came the olive throat that moved in an incredibly sensuous way when she swallowed.
My first relationship was with the full lips that never chapped, but which talked about marriage too soon. The rebound was the hairy muscular back that relaxed with my toes sliding up its spine.
Then, among others, the dangly earrings with the orgasmic earlobes, the set of curves with an ambition to travel, the dry-skinned elbow with watery eyes.
It’s funny how it’s always been like that. I’m sitting across the table from the flowing hair and the cocked eyebrow, and she shows me the broken fingernail.