My Feet on Your Face

You give in like a fool on payday. Those size-3 feet dangle right in front of your face, toes wiggling, nails painted glossy like tiny warning signs. Sniff, the sharp tang hits the back of your nose, equal parts sock sweat and sharp perfume. You press your lips in anyway. Lick the arch, feel the rough ridge where a heel rubbed against yesterday’s sandals. The big toe bows down, cool against your tongue, slippery from fresh polish. Between them there’s a warm valley of skin that smells faintly like old rubber and cherry candy. Every slow drag of your tongue makes a quiet, wet sound. Moan if you like; no one’s here to save you. She knows you’re already gone.