By Jeff Gard
The moment Horace wobbled off the teleportation pad, he knew there’d been a mistake. Teleporting always felt a little disorienting, the way molecules vibrated when they settled back in place. His feet often tingled as if tickled by a light rain. This time, his size-13 leather oxfords folded in half with each step. His toes searched in vain for the edges of the suddenly cavernous footwear. Horace tripped over the curb and sprawled in the gutter.
A fitting end to the Singles Meet and Greet in Venice. His mother had bought and paid for the trip, insisting her only son needed to settle down. Apparently, “not interested” and “go away” was a universal language.
I’m never going to meet someone special.
Stretched over the curb, Horace peeled back his socks. The skin around his ankles had lightened several shades. A freckle peeked out from one ankle, and shimmering, purple toenails waved up at him.
That can’t be good.
“Did you fill out the form?” asked Meryl, a customer service representative at the Lost or Misaligned Limb Department.
“What form?”
An exasperated sigh. “It’s on the website. Fill it out, and we’ll figure something out in two or three months, tops.”
Horace stared at the purple toes. “What do I do in the meantime?”
“Treat them like you would your own feet.”
Horace had never given any thought to whether feet had feelings or needs.
Should I wash them or wear more comfortable socks?
He turned the ankle side to side and watched the light dance off the violet nail polish.
They’re kind of pretty.
He paced his apartment, carefully balancing his massive frame on its newer foundation. Contrary to expectations, the petite feet had a fantastic sense of balance; each turn became a crisp pirouette.
This could work.
This is not working.
Chelsea leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, “Is that the best you can do?”
Horace checked the spreadsheet. “This is our lowest rate.”
Under the desk, his new toes clawed at his oxfords and peeled them off. They pulled and stretched the ends of the socks until they were free. Horace covered one foot with the other.
“I’ve been a customer here for ages. Surely, you can do better.”
The feet crawled toward the client. Horace bumped his knee on the drawer as he hauled them back under his chair.
“Sorry.” He attempted his best smile.
“Hmph. I guess I’ll have to find a new bank.” Chelsea folded the papers and tucked them into her purse. Her fingernails gleamed a soft shade of lilac. White lilies shimmered on their mirror-like surface. She turned away.
Horace jumped up. “Wait!”
She turned, victory tugging at the corners of her mouth.
“Where did you get your nails done?”
The nail technician, Kim, clucked her tongue. “Such pretty feet. Must you hide them in those ugly shoes?”
Foam spacers separated each toe, which bopped to a sugary, adrenalized song thumping from overhead speakers. The nail polish remover stung Horace’s nose and made his eyes water. “What do you recommend?”
She shrugged and buffed the nails. “Anything with an open toe.”
Horace looked for men’s hiking sandals at the shoe store, but the toes scrambled toward a pair of platform slingbacks.
I’m not going to be caught dead in those.
Horace hopped toward the flip-flops.
The toes snaked out and knocked a pair of flats from the shelf. Horace fell over a bench as the exuberant digits pried off the box top and rifled through tissue paper. Horace twisted sideways, trying in vain to pull himself toward the men’s section.
“Can I help you?” Tara, the shoe goddess-salesperson stood over him with one arched eyebrow.
“I’ve got a wedding this weekend. Got something with an open toe?”
“Will there be dancing?”
“I don’t dance.”
Not dancing was more challenging than it seemed. Every time Horace passed the dance floor, the obstinate feet became compass needles aimed at the DJ’s magnetic north. Walking back from the buffet turned into waltzing. The feet practically fox-trotted him toward the open bar.
Thankfully, the reception hall offered plenty of shadows. Nobody commented on the purple toenails peeking out from the flats tucked under his long, dark slacks.
Instead, others whispered and pointed at a crazy lady on the dance floor. From the waist up, sensuous arms rode currents of melody. Lights transformed her into a garden of movement: heliotrope hips, allium and gladiolus ribs, foxglove shoulders, and morning glory sleeves.
Below her hips, her legs twitched and stumbled. She bumped into people who quickly cleared a path. Before long, she danced alone.
Horace’s toes tapped to the rhythm. They inched toward the DJ and tried coaxing Horace from his table. He dragged the insistent digits under his chair. They pranced forward again. With one last sigh, Horace tossed away his beer and slipped into the throng of swaying couples.
His feet followed the rhythm perfectly. He glided on clouds, riding the troughs between cumulus and nimbus, buoyed by the beat of a heavenly chorus. His calves and legs took their cue from the feet. His arms and shoulders did nothing useful. They spasmed and froze, clunky and uncertain, twisting and contorting.
One dizzy spin later, Horace collided with the flailing woman. She smiled an apology with pink, freckled cheeks. He swallowed with a desert throat.
You’ve got this. Just don’t draw attention to your feet.
She glanced down at the sparkling purple toenails. “Hey! Those are mine!”
Familiar, Sasquatch toes gaped up at Horace from the bottom of her legs. The woman faltered, and he caught her. “Gotcha. Be careful with those guys. They don’t like to be up after nine o’clock.”
“I know,” she said. “They’ve been dragging me to bed way too early.”
“I’m Horace.”
“Gina.”
“Nice to meet you. What do you say we get out of here and swap feet?”
The music calmed and Gina leaned into him. “After this dance. Our feet aren’t going anywhere without us.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Loved this. It was almost as if the two sets of feet arranged the matchmaking themselves…
Matchmaking feet. I love that! When writing this, I swear my hands were just following where my feet led me. Feet are smarter than we give them credit for.
extremely clever! very enjoyable,
Thank you!
Ah! Having someone else’s feet sounds horrible. I’m glad I don’t have to worry about that.
I really like how the reason that this whole mix-up happened ties into the ending.
That does sound horrible, doesn’t it? With the right (wrong?) word choice, this becomes a horror story.
I love that the feet have a mind of their own!
Sasquatch toes! I love your word choice! They do say that body parts contain memories, but this was hilarious. Fun to read.
What a cute story! I loved it. Entertaining and sweet.
What?? Where?? What?? That was so dang cute!! Kinda like a… “meet cute,” eh? I want to say this was a literal take on a metaphorical expression, but I don’t know what the metaphor is, and if there is no metaphor, there should be.
Laughed all the way through this. Brilliant.
Brilliantly written, and so funny! That nail polish sounds lovely lol
This was such an unexpected concept and hilarious execution of the story. Well done!
Awesome sauce!