the ball

She used to rub her feet against mine under the covers. Which was fine, great actually, except she had long toenails and more than a few calluses and it was like she was affectionately running a pair of cheese graters up and down my leg.

It wouldn’t have surprised me to look down and see a bunch of socialites placing thin strips of me on Ritz crackers.

In fact, I wouldn’t have been surprised in the least to see the bedroom transform into a large ballroom filled with dozens of well-dressed men and women gaily twirling and dancing around with sweet, sweet music filling the air.

Obviously I don’t surprise easy. Even at vague inferences of cannibalism.

Which is fine.

Great actually.

And it’s also obvious I associate her showing me affection with all the best things about galas and snack crackers.

Which is fine.

But great?

I still have scars on my legs that say otherwise. (the word ‘still’ implying that I hold out hope that one day they/she will fade)

And aren’t Triscuits considered more upscale than Ritz? (the word ‘ritzy’ adding to my subconscinal confusion)(subconscinal… not a word, but should be)

Maybe the reason it’s an old-fashioned ball as opposed to a modern-day nightclub scene is because all the legs are covered up under the giant dresses and poofy pants so nobody can see the dancer’s scars. Some of their legs no doubt still healing as they put on their happy faces, spinning to the sweet, sad music of a foregone time.

Their feet occasionally slipping on the Ritz and Triscuit crumbs.

I wouldn’t be surprised.