He loved sitting on the couch, holding her small strong feet in his hands. Just sitting there, not speaking, watching the evening news, holding her feet -- that’s where things felt best. On warm summer mornings, they would sit naked together on the couch, watching Spongebob Squarepants, sipping on strong black coffee. The morning breeze flowed in through the open windows and doors and across their skins. Her small popcorn toes curled in his grasp and he could feel her distant heart pulsing against his fingers.
Her feet, like his, had pressed against the earth and felt its throb and buck and slow creep. They had carried her across thousands of miles of concrete, forest duff, mud, carpet, polished wood and sand. They had soaked in sun and rain, water and dust. They had pressed against flesh and flailed in the air. To him, holding her feet in his hands was like holding her past. He knew her better; he knew her secrets. When he held her ankles, or stroked the deep arch of her foot, or stabbed his fingers between her toes, he meant to keep her, forever.
