“Yesss.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
I looked grudgingly down to my size ten-and-a-half black loafers
and wiggled my toes; I sighed. Am I really this desperate for money? I
looked around the eleven-foot-by-eleven-foot room I had been renting—
the “Box,” I not-so-lovingly called it—and realized the answer was a
resounding “yes.”
Clear water hadn’t run in the sink in over a month. The half of
the ceiling tiles that were still above me were covered in a water stain
the size of a large dog. The walls were bare. The overwhelming odor of a
used litter box filled the small space, and I’d never had a cat. There was
no heat, so various neutral, threadbare blankets decorated the room in
strange places: on top of the mini-fridge, on the windowsill, over the
coffee table, on the futon, on top of the defective radiator. The cabinet
held nothing but generic macaroni and cheese and cinnamon applesauce.
To be honest, I probably could’ve afforded something nicer (or at least
heated). I guess, in a strange way, I just felt that the “Box” and I deserved
each other. Misery loves its company, and all that.
“My toes are red too. I got a pedicure this morning.”
What I heard then was unmistakably panting, and a strange
slapping sound that made me wince.
“Mm, baby, what’s your size?”
“Ten, ten and a half?” By this point I had forgotten my tone
completely. Is this guy for real?
Another strange, breathy sound, and then: “Long toes?”
God damn it.
“Yes?”
“I’d get my hands all over those feet, baby. Run my fingers up and
down your arches; tickle them. Taste each and every toe. Grip them and
pull them to my face, breathe in the smell of—”
“Jesus fucking Christ. Smell my feet? You need help and now I
need some shots of Jack. God damn.”
I slapped my flip phone together, effectively putting another in
the long line of part-time jobs behind me with a sigh.
I thought, what will it be next?
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