Tonight I was coming home from Korean class, making my way down the stairs in Banwoldang Station to the subway, and I had a memory. Strange what pops into our heads. This one was of removing Gareths socks, and I thought to myself, There is nothing more intimate than removing someones socks. A gentleness and a magnitude of caring that goes beyond helping the one you love put their jacket on before leaving the house or straightening a tie or even unbuttoning a shirt before sliding your hands around their bare waist. Removing the socks. Fingers slip under the cotton and meet his ankle. Had I known this memory would come back to greet me with such sweetness, I would have let them linger there at the time, taking in his shape, reading his bones like braille. Removing the socks. Pulling them past the heel. Rounded. Rough and calloused. Riding briefly along the arch and down to where the toes hide. Those toes. The second one much shorter than the rest. Nails unattended to and a few hairs growing wildly from the tops. What is it about this that would call me to kiss them, each one? These were the toes of the man I loved. Removing the socks. He is sleeping heavily after a long drive to come see me. He will wake in the middle of the night to remove his jeans and his shirt and fall back into a deeper slumber, but for now I will remove his socks and cover him with a blanket. I will set his socks on top of his bag and I will crawl into bed with him. He will, in his sleep, instinctively reach for me and wrap me up and I will fall asleep to the sound of his breathing and the feel of my bare toes finding his beneath the covers. Removing the socks. Everyone deserves a good foot rub. Are your feet ticklish? No? Good. Seriously. Youll love this. I had this done in New York once at a spa and I couldnt believe how amazing it was. I dont really have any proper massage stuff, but here- let me take off your socks. Let me beg of my fingers to be strong and press deeply into the bottoms of your feet. I want to do this for you. And act of love. Removing the socks in a swift act of passion. Clothes discarded across the floor. One sock would be found miles away from its mate the next morning. Wed laugh about seeing it and say we should really take a picture of the scene. Im surprised we didnt, although you wrote a poem about it once. Whaaaat happened in here? youd say, in an accusatory tone. I have NO idea, Id say. Id look guilty. Wed laugh again. In the hospital Gareth was wearing no socks that needed removing. His feet were tucked tightly beneath starched sheets faintly smelling of antiseptic. My hands first met his face. His nose. The top of his wrapped head. His neck. I kissed each part. I placed my palm across the surface of his skin and I kissed where my hand lifted. His shoulders. His chest. His arms. Each finger. The wide palms of his hands and the smooth backs. I touched his side. His legs. I wrapped my hands around his calves. His ankles. I lifted the sheet and found his feet. I found a small bandaid on the bottom of his heal. I kissed it. One on the other heel. I kissed that one, too. Each toe was touched and kissed. I squeezed his foot in the same way I had after gently removing his socks bathed in afternoon light from my wide apartment window. I know these feet, I thought. I have undressed them. I have taken them into my hands and loved them. Rolling down the cotton. Peeling back the sheets. Hands on toes and warm skin and yes-this-is-the-last-time-I-will-touch-you-here. Removing what little fabric is between me and the feet I know. Exposing the man I love.
Posted on: Thu, 03 Apr 2014 15:14:33 +0000
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