AT THE FEET OF SOFIA

It's always the same for me, as soon as the heat arrives. I start walking with my eyes pointing to the ground more than usual: I'm looking at women's feet, which begin to uncover themselves after the winter confinement. Observing the female lower extremities, and without realizing it, I think how this woman will be intimately. It is as if I were undressing her from the bottom up, to then draw some conclusions that are not even clear to me. I never have the impression of knowing a lady with certain depth if I have not been able to slyly study his feet.
And that was what disturbed me about Sofia, the new co-worker who arrived one spring afternoon at our company. She was charming, blonde and had an innocent look in her eyes. It didn't take us long 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 workday.
It was a mutual fascination. We would spend 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. Everything seemed perfect, and was heading for 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 met her, I had never seen her feet.

By that time it was already a habit for me to wallow, as every year, in the unconscious observation of the lower extremities 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 sneakers. 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 toes, with manicured nails and velvet-like heels. But the unresolved issue was still on my mind. What to do? Our relationship was maturing, and in her honey-colored 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 if I didn't unravel that last mystery: her feet.
It all came together at the beginning of December, when after coffee at the exit of the office, we walked for a while in the park.

The conversation went smoothly, although she seemed 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, before her astonishment, I practically tore off her shoes. She remained barefoot and astonished, looking at me without understanding and involuntarily exhibiting her delicate limbs, which were just as I had imagined them. I remained kneeling, contemplating her lower extremities, with my eyes wild and my mind blocked. After a few eternal seconds, she grabbed 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 unhinged coworkers.
Maybe I have 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.