His fingers lightly trace the patterns on her hands. She's a walking work of art, a touchable canvas, with delicate henna winding around her wrists. It always begins with the intention of curling up on the sofa with a good film, but his focus always drifts away from the screen and towards her.

It's not a fully conscious act. He can't hold or touch her or as much as talk to her too much at the university without causing trouble for the both of them, so when they're alone, all those suppressed desires come alive.

He's more talkative when he's with her. A weeks' worth of thoughts and feelings are bottled up until he gets to see her on the weekend. He lives for the weekend now. He used to be a workaholic, one of those people who exist for their career, but now he lives life with a running countdown clock, waiting for those two special days where they can finally do as they please.

He spends his week surround by art and the discussion of it, yet the only work he gives a damn about these days is her henna, and how he wishes he could freely hold her hand and run a thumb along those intricate lines and follow the labyrinth painted on her fingers.

Not until the weekend.

It's that countdown clock again. Three days until the weekend, ninety four until she graduates.