Nude Self Portrait, 2015.

It will be a year in August—I am counting the days and months on fingers that miss the texture of his skin, they are not reliable units of measurement. “We should count on your fingers,” I told him. “They are far more reliable than mine.”

He nodded without hesitation, his chin cutting through the fog surrounding his head.

“Yes, but I like the way your hands look when they are touching me, and yourself—I like watching your fingers, I like watching you feel,” he said, “they are not good for nothing.”

“Feelings?”

“No, your fingers.”

By MJ Katz