Feet

He puts on "Decoration Day" and I put my bare feet up on his knee. He holds one of them, his hands warm and comforting. One time when I did this, he told me I didn't have to, as if I was doing it for him. We both take comfort in the tactile, and I can usually tell how lonely he is by how he responds when I put my feet up on him.

He laughs and tugs at my foot. I tell him if he pulls hard enough, I'll come close. My chair has wheels. He pulls until he's holding my legs in his lap and continues to gently rub the sole of my right foot with his thumb.

One time when I was drunk on tequila in Texas I taught a girl how to give an erotic foot massage. Her husband sat in the recliner with his legs up and we each took a foot and ran our tongues up and down the arches, sucked on his toes, worked our thumbs into the tense muscles. He stretched out in bliss. It retrospect, it was sort of an awkward near-threesome, but I didn't mind at the time.

What comes next is the same old thing that's somehow new every time it happens. We connect. I tell him I'm sick of being a mistake, and he sounds sad and tired when he tells me that he doesn't mean it like that.

And when we get to that part of the song, he sings it into my ear. It breaks my heart in two to know it ain't meant to be..."But it ain't me. It ain't me."