Charming, but single

“Will she eat my shoes?” I asked, motioning to his new dog, which is four years old but still acts like a puppy. “No, she will not eat your shoes,” On Paper assured me as he walked into the living room. Earlier, when I was leaning up against the kitchen counter sipping a glass of sweet tea, he’d brushed some hair behind my ear and taken my inexpensive dangling earrings in between his thumb and forefinger. “I like that you always wear these long earrings. They’re special.” “They’re leaves. Little metal leaves,” I said quietly, as if identifying them was somehow profound. “Falling leaves.” “I know.” He was standing across from me in his little kitchen. We had the whole house to fill, but he stood close to me as we drank our sweet tea. I was in a black dress, a sweater shrug and three-inch stain peep toe heels with a sling back. I’d dined and seen a show with my girlfriends. And, as was coming slightly customary, I’d ended up at On Paper’s house on the intersection of Chemistry and Uncertainty. He stood before me in jeans and an untucked tee. Barefoot, he towered over me in my heels. He used to play football and I feel overwhelmed by his physical presence sometimes, like when I see how little my hands are when our fingers are intertwined. I’d announced that I needed to sit. No more sweet tea; my feet were killing me. I slipped one shoe off and then the other and placed them gently on the floor near the couch, eyeing the puppy as I let them drop. She took one look hungry at them and I knew not to trust her. I scooped them up by their black backstraps and deposited them on a table. “Well, come here.” He reached out to me. He’s settled in on the couch and his hand pulled me to sit by his side. “Give me those feet.” And he leaned over and grabbed one knee to twist my legs across his lap. I squealed and screeched like a five-year-old schoolchild being chased on a playground. “You cannot touch my feet. They are gross,” I insisted, trying to tuck them underneath my skirt. “They’re fine,” he said, tugging at an ankle. “No! No! No! No feet!” “Why?” “They’re gross and my toes aren’t polished and I need a pedicure like crazy,” I said. “Seriously? Just let me rub your feet. You said they hurt from those shoes.” I shook my head, crossed my arms across my chest and narrowed my eyes stubbornly. He grabbed a throw from the back of the couch and spread it across his lap. I squealed again as he pulled my feet to the throw and then covered them. And then he rubbed my feet through the blanket. “No touching of the feet. No seeing of the toes,” he said, clearly proud of his ingenuity. My strong reaction to him touching my feet was confusing – of all the places he’s touched me, of all the angles he’s seen of me, I doubt my slightly callused heels would have been in any way shocking. “They’re ugly.” “Nothing on you is ugly,” he said, shaking his head. And then he kissed me before I could self deprecate again.