Pedicure

This isn't kinky or wicked. 

Sorry. 

I can't wait till I can write something just from joy again and stop having to apologise for my posts being somewhat tricky. 

For something more uplifting look 

     

                          and       

I had been thinking about feet for Kink of the Week and had been musing about the service of washing someone's feet. It's such a personal, intimate thing. Part of our body that is covered nearly everywhere but in the privacy of our own homes. 

Accepting someone's feet in a less than perfect state is a deep intimacy. Letting someone wash your feet, letting them see you not at your best, letting them serve you in their cleaning, in a foot rub, is symbolic as well as physical. You have to let go of your sense of embarrassment to play with feet.

That was as far as I got before I was distracted by life, but feet were still on my mind. 

This is my love for my slightly toppy best friend K. The one who chose my red dress for Eroticon and was scandalized by my cleavage shots. The one who has held my hand through all the troubles with my boys.  The one who straightens me out in a very Domme like fashion when it comes to all the vanilla sections in my life... and cheerfully plays with the dynamic even though we are not intimate like that. Accepts me with all my quirks and kinks. 

I'm too British to tell my best friend I love her. I'm too frightened of relationships to have told her she's my best friend out loud. 

She's a fragile lady with a chronic health condition, tiny, 5'5" in her heels next to my 6' in stocking feet. Loves to wear bright vibrant colours. While I was away in Barcelona with my kids, she picked up an infection in a caravan on the coast with hers. Just over a week ago, she was taken into hospital. We made a date over messenger for me to come and see her, and I thought a nice thing would be to give her a pedicure...

I cradle your heel in my hand. Run the instep with my thumb. Feel your skin, soft and dry like parchment beneath my fingers.

I barely know where to begin. Can you feel me?

The way I feel for you is exploding from my chest. I trust you can feel that.

I don’t want to stop touching you for a second. But I must. This is supposed to be a pedicure.

The bowl is perched precariously beside us, but I manage to wring out the cloths, test their heat and wrap your feet in their warm blanket. We haven’t got much time, but each second I wait is too long and too short. I dry carefully between your long elegant toes, leave one foot wrapped in a fluffy towel.

I squish moisturiser from the bottle and warm it in my hands. Rub gently but firmly, just how I like it. You are perfectly made, each toe perfectly fitting with the others, tallest to smallest. Your skin thickened but smooth like snake skin, the muscles beneath totally relaxed. I feel the seconds ticking down. Take your left foot.

Your feet, like the rest of you, are tiny compared to me, shorter from heel to toe than my palm and fingers. Fragile. So utterly fucking fragile.

I brought you pink polish. I brought half a dozen colours just in case you had a preference, but since I have chosen for you, I uncap the strong pink I wore for Tris. I think you’ll like it. I paint each nail with shaking hands and blurred eyes, glad for the hair that falls across my face and gives me privacy.

I’m glad I have this. An intimate moment with you. My heart is so full with all the things that need to be said and probably won’t be. In my head, I’m sitting at your kitchen table while you comb my hair. Hugging you while you cry. Being held.

The pink looks good. Summery. Outside the window it is a beautiful day, but here we cannot see the sky or hear the birds. Your window is onto an internal quad, the light made grey by the buildings above us. I blow gently, wondering if there is time for a second coat.

I don’t do wishing. Or regretting. Usually. But right now, I wish I had hung around last week, when you exclaimed over my mermaid hair and shared the pictures of Barcelona. But you were tired and I felt lost. You gave me a task and off I scampered to get it done. Just ten more minutes. I wish I’d stayed. I wish I’d said something then.

They are dry. And perfect. And it is time to say goodbye.

I gather my things, throw the water away in the little corner sink and tidy everything into my bag.

Roll the sheet and the blanket back down and carefully refold the hospital corners.  Hide round the corner, between the bathroom and the door. I can’t be crying. I won’t. But I shake with silent grief that wants to howl and bring the building crashing down on us both. With sobs that retch through me as I bite me lips closed. Until I gather my discipline and let it flow away, stop fighting and accept that you are peaceful.

I slip from the room.

Don’t follow me.  

K is fighting a sepsis infection and had at least one heart attack on Sunday night. Her underlying health condition makes her even more fragile. She is not up to visits at the moment and I am scared she will die (which statistically is more likely than not) and embarrassed that everyone else, her husband and our other friends from church are still unfailingly upbeat and I am hiding behind my computer crying. Embarrassed that I am missing her above worrying how her absence is affecting her family. Perhaps I have to get it out of the way so I can be useful in whatever later brings.