AT THE FEET OF SOFIA

It's always the same, as soon as the heat arrives. I start to walk with my eyes pointing to the ground more than usual: I'm looking at women's feet, which are beginning to uncover themselves after the winter confinement. Looking at the female lower extremities, and without realising it, I think about what this woman will be like intimately. It is as if I were undressing her from the bottom upwards, to then draw some conclusions that are not even clear to me. I never have the impression of knowing a lady in any depth if I have not been able to slyly studying his feet.
And that was what disturbed me about Sofia, the new co-worker who arrived at our company one spring afternoon. She was charming, blonde and had an innocent look in her eyes. It didn't take long for us to hit it off, and within a week of getting to know each other it was rare that we didn't go for coffee or lunch together after each working day.
It was a mutual fascination. We spent hours talking, and in less than a fortnight he had told me all about his young life. Incidentally, I had been equally confident, opening my heart as never before. It all seemed perfect, and was leading to a happy romance or one of those friendships that are very occasionally observed between men and women. However, there was something that troubled me deeply.

Disclosure

It took me some time to understand what it was all about, until one hot November day I knew: since I had met her, I had never seen her feet.

By that time I had become accustomed to wallowing, as I do every year, in the unconscious observation of the lower limbs of every woman there was.

But this was not the case with Sofia. I had never seen her without closed booties, or fine dark shoes, or sophisticated trainers. But never with her feet uncovered. At first, I played it down. Still, I imagined them in keeping with her lanky body. They would have rather slender little toes, with manicured nails and velvet-like heels. But the unresolved issue was still in my head: what to do? Our relationship was maturing, and in her honey-coloured eyes I seemed to sense that she expected more from me than coffee talk and pleasant company. But it was almost impossible for me to think of making her my partner without first unravelling that last mystery: her feet.
It all came together at the beginning of December when, after a coffee break at the office, we went for a walk in the park.

The conversation went smoothly, although she was tense, as if she couldn't bring herself to tell me anything. Finally, she managed to get to the point: she told me she was in love with me.

An end on the feet

The first impulse I felt was to kiss her passionately. But something was holding me back. I knew what it was, but I refused to accept it. Finally, I couldn't stop myself: with my vision blurred, I bent down and, to her astonishment, I practically ripped off her shoes. She stood there barefoot and dumbfounded, staring at me uncomprehendingly, involuntarily displaying her delicate limbs, which were just as I had imagined them. I remained on my knees, staring at her lower limbs, my eyes wild-eyed and my mind blocked. After a few eternal seconds, she picked up her shoes and ran away. I never saw her again.
The next day, a cold telegram informed us that he would no longer be working with us. And I learned that in a phone call he told our boss that he didn't want to have disturbed colleagues.
Maybe I've lost the woman of my life; I don't know. I'm in therapy now, and my analyst thinks it's not serious. But I guess he doesn't understand; neither does Sofia. I keep looking at women's feet as if it were nothing.