i was with my parents, and you were working at the shoe store on third floor. I wanted running shoes, my dad wanted running socks. you were just hoping that i didn't recognize you since the shop gave horrible hourly rates and was an attraction for high-school dropouts.
years later, we met again, and this time the both of us wanted a pair of shoes. you had a deep tan and a wolfish smile. we caught up for a full ten minutes in front of 35 shoes on display - all lefties that play either tennis, running, or football. I ran my fingers over them as you explained to me that different shoes have different soles. what these ridges and curves mean.
tonight, with you glasses on and laptop on your lap and the tv is mute i squeeze on the sofa you were stretched on and park my legs on your lap. very slowly you place your laptop to the side, and massage the arch of my right foot. you said i have a high arch. you could tell from years of bringing people their shoes. you said that I supinate, whereas you are bordering over-pronator. running terms that only obsessed runners like me would know.
"say it again," i say, while the rain pit patter outside.
"what?"
"that i have a high arch. and that i supinate."
you gave me that wolfish smile again, your thumb making slow lazy circles on my arch.
"you have a high arch," you say, lifting my foot to your mouth you kiss the spot. "and you supinate."
later, way later, we finally slept.
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