by Meg Tuite

Anderson was a sallow troglodyte whenever I took him to a party.
“Did you know that Parkinsons has been linked to the plague of poor foot care?” My friends would just stare at him.
“They’re finding out that most injuries to the elderly are due to irresponsible shoes or shoddy footwear. Not slipping in the bathtub, like you might think.”
Then they’d turn and glare at me, or walk away.
It was not what you’d call inflamed conversation, but I had a thing for Anderson that no one else understood. This inert man combusted into something prodigious whenever we had sex. The first time I jumped him, I did it out of thankfulness. I had been on so many dates with cocky twaddle-heads who never shut-up about themselves that when Anderson showed up and actually asked me how I was, I kissed him. He was an enthusiast in the bedroom and, unlike the rest, he listened. Not surprising that he had a foot fetish. I became a regular at the pedicurist’s shop. Anderson spent hours wearing me and my multi-colored toenails down.
So whenever my girlfriends looked at me in horror and screeched “why,” I just smiled and tapped my well-groomed feet.

Meg Tuite’s writing has appeared or is forthcoming in 34th Parallel, Calliope, San Francisco Bay Press, The Santa Fe Literary Review, One, Artistically Declined Press, Spilt Milk, The Nova Scotia Review, SLAB Magazine, Monkeybicycle, Boston Literary Magazine and elsewhere. She is the fiction editor of The Santa Fe Literary Review. Her fiction collection “Domestic Apparition” is forthcoming in early 2011 through San Francisco Bay Press. She writes a column, Exquisite Quartet, for Used Furniture Review.

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