You sit, quiet in your corner, feet crossed through the back of an empty chair, head down and eyes quiet as you concentrate on your work. He's flitting around the room, laughing, smiling, hosting well. Then he comes, pauses, and sits in the chair in front of you. He sees you, though, for he puts both hands behind his back and cups your bare feet, gentle in the curve of his fingers. I try not to let my eyes linger, but it is such a lovely sweet gesture that I glance again. Maybe you see my gaze catch, because you twitch your toes, uncross your feet, withdraw. And he is left sitting, hands awkward and empty, and I imagine his shoulders droop just a fraction of an inch.
It makes me angry, truly it does. I want to go to you, make you put your feet back into his hands, or better yet, lean forward and clasp his hands in your own. I want to shake you by the shoulders, tell you, "Don't you know what you have?" I want to lean down and whisper in your ear, "Never be ashamed that a good man loves you."
But I cannot do or say any of those things, and with regret, I know that moment of quietness and beauty is gone, and somehow, my heart and throat ache over its quickness.
Don't you know how many girls would die to be loved by a man who would cradle their bare feet in his hands?
Don't you ever take that for granted.
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