In the car on the way home today, I had this little narrative rattling around in my head:
Denny never had much of a foot fetish, yet he was captivated by Heather’s perfectly painted, bright red toenails. He tried to meet her eyes as they talked at the service desk, but his gaze invariably got tangled up in the straps of her sandals, and fell back to her toes. He wanted to touch them, or quite possibly see them pressed against his bare chest. He twisted his wedding ring around his finger, finally met Heather’s eyes, and said, “Quittin’ time.”
There were so many things in the world that needed to be fixed. Not just the cars that came into the shop everyday, but probably the people who drove them, too. If people didn’t even treat their cars right, how did they treat each other?
I wrote this out a few times in the car. On the third try I got ahead of myself and wrote “Denny never had a footish.” I think I like that better. Also, what is it with me and the shoes lately? Maybe a shoe story brewing?
