Slowly, my eyes open.
He doesn’t look up. He’s painting my toenails.
Telling me I’m beautiful, that my figure makes his heart melt, he says I’m just about perfect. Or would be but for my feet, which are big and flat.
Peasant feet, he says.
He should know. Stanley’s a podiatrist. He has standards.
He surprised me this morning, quickly, violently, administering the narcotic.
Now I watch as he carefully paints each small, perfect toe.
The scars around your ankles, he says, will fade.
I can’t speak. Tears fall.
But my poor old feet!
You’ll thank me, he says, not looking up.
© All Rights Reserved Kate Loveton and Odyssey of a Novice Writer
Word count: 100
Note: Story written in response to the ‘100 Word Challenge for Grown Ups’ sponsored on Julia’s Place (Julia Skinner). The prompt was ‘but my poor old feet.’