Walking to 7-Eleven this morning in new flats, their stiffness rubbed against the backs of my heels, creating blisters. Deja vu shot through my brain to the forefront of my consciousness and I saw us so clearly in that Paris drugstore. I sat in a chair and he knelt down on the floor before me, sliding my foot out of the offending shoe as I extended it towards him like a queen to her minion. Tenderly, he applied a thick bandage across the bloody, oozing blister, gently smoothing and adhering it to my bare skin. He purchased extras to be used over the next few days until I'd healed, until my limp had disappeared and the shoes were sufficiently broken in. Then carefully, he slipped my foot back into the new ballet flat, kissing my knee as he stood, clasping my hands and pulling me up to face him. Lovingly, so lovingly, he kissed me on the mouth and brushed my hair from my face with his hand, his eyes smiling into mine. Walking along the Rue de Rivoli and beyond was instantly painless (physically) and the enjoyment resumed (presumably). Two months later, I filed divorce papers and with them, that memory. The triggers are everywhere, though, and there's no telling when or where they'll be pulled. Ready. Aim. Fire.
Pretentious Indie Song of the Day:
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