at my Fingertips

I leaned back in my chair, rubbing my eyes. I had been working at my computer for hours. I was exhausted, but the rhythmic tapping of the keyboard was the only thing keeping unpleasant thoughts at bay. Yet, they were already creeping back in.

Three months ago, my relationship with Andrew had ended. Five years—flushed down the toilet. I massaged my temples and forced myself to think of something more constructive: they weren’t flushed down the toilet. The relationship had ended, and I felt awful, but endings were normal. Change was normal. That didn’t take away the value of what we had shared, the ways he had been there for me through the changes in my life.

I sighed. I told myself this all the time, but believing it was another thing entirely.

Luckily, my friends had been there for me throughout this awful period and were still supporting me. My apartment had practically become a daily meeting spot for them, bringing me takeout pizza, organizing Twilight marathons, and dragging me outside.

Tonight, we had a The Thing rewatch planned—Stephen and Irene were just as obsessed with horror movies as I was.

“What’s on the menu tonight?” Irene asked, throwing herself onto the couch as soon as she arrived.

“A gourmet dinner—I made pizza rolls.”

Stephen sat next to her. “Pepperoni, I hope. Or triple cheese?”

“Pepperoni and triple cheese.”

“No triple meat?” Irene gasped, scandalized. “That’s the best!”

“They’re overrated,” I laughed, shrugging.

The three of us sat in front of the TV, long after the pizza rolls were gone. I was enjoying Irene and Stephen’s endless debate about The Thing’s special effects when I noticed something strange. Stephen had gone oddly quiet.

I turned to look at him, and in the flickering light of the TV, I saw him staring at my feet, stretched out on the chaise lounge.

It was as if he was studying them. His tongue barely brushed his lower lip—a distracted, unconscious gesture.

I knew Steph liked feet. We had talked about it many times. We were very open about our preferences, and it was refreshing to be able to talk about them without embarrassment.

He had always told me that, to him, feet were more interesting than breasts or ass. “Less obvious,” he said. More intimate.

He also believed they were an underrated erogenous zone, much more sensitive than people thought. Then there was the appeal of embarrassment—giving attention to something that was often considered strange, taboo.

His curiosity had rubbed off on me to the point where I had tried to experiment with Andrew—but with little success. Andrew was accommodating, but my feet didn’t interest him much. Still, the experience had confirmed what Stephen had said: feet were definitely an underestimated erogenous zone.

But Steph had never looked at me like that before.

I stretched my toes casually, yawning, watching his reaction.

His eyes stayed locked on my movements, like a magnet.

I returned my gaze to the film now and then, only to shift my position again, giving him a different view of my feet.

It was like playing with a laser pointer and a cat.

At this point, I was barely watching the movie—I was much more interested in his reactions.

I was playing with him.

Another slight movement, something that seemed accidental.

His breathing grew just a little heavier.

“You cannot tell me this movie aged badly! Look at that scene!” Irene shouted, pointing at the screen.

The magic shattered, and the conversation returned to the film.

“Yeah, yeah, super realistic,” Stephen muttered. “Looks just like my uncle when the Chicago Bears lose a game.”

I laughed along with them, but my mind was still stuck on that look.

Without thinking, I moved my toes again under the dim glow of the TV.

His gaze flicked toward them for a fraction of a second—a reflex.

Almost imperceptible.

But I had seen it.