The Weight of a Secret - 2. Chapter 2

He left me alone for the next few days though we saw each other at the bus stop each morning. Even that Friday morning, nothing was said. I thought about what would happen if I just didn’t show up, given the fact that nothing had been said since the bench meeting. I decided it was too risky and headed over to his house at around the time practice would be over. There was a path on the side of the house leading to a gate that opened into the backyard. I pushed it open, the latch clicking with a sound that broke the otherwise silent afternoon. Beyond the gate, the path continued, narrower now and curving to the left, hugging the side of the house. It led to a set of slightly cracked cement steps that descended into a small, shadowed landing alcove. At the bottom, a disarrayed pile of football equipment – a helmet, shoulder pads, muddy cleats, soiled jersey, and pants – lay carelessly discarded in front of the basement entry door, a stark reminder of Connor's recent practice.

The door itself stood ajar and opened into a short, cool hallway. To the right, a laundry room hummed faintly with the lingering scent of detergent, housing a washer, dryer, and a plastic slop sink, while next to it, on the same side, was a small, windowless bathroom. The hallway then opened up, revealing a sprawling, somewhat cluttered main room, loosely divided into a TV area and a separate, bare table space. Connor was already there, sprawled on the couch, his feet propped up on the coffee table. He was wearing just an undershirt, boxers and socks. There was a line of dirt that separated the part of his foot that was in his cleats. Connor looked up from the couch, a casual, almost friendly expression on his face.

"Hey, Andrew. Good that you’re here." He shifted his position on the couch taking his feet off the coffee table. "So, here's the deal. My stuff has to be cleaned after every practice and mom makes us do our own laundry. I’m sure you saw the pile of equipment outside. I need you to get all the caked-on crap off the pants and jersey, give the cleats a thorough cleaning – really get into the grooves – and wipe down the shoulder pads and helmet. Once that's done, toss the jersey and pants in with the rest of my laundry which is in my room upstairs - two flights up on the left.

You know where the machine is." He paused, then added, "After you start the laundry, go back up and take care of my room. It's a disaster, plus the bathroom I share with Patrick needs a serious overhaul. Just tidy everything up, okay? Make it look decent."

As he spoke, he reached into the waistband of his boxers, his fingers disappearing for a moment before he pulled out a plastic athletic cup, still slightly damp. He didn't seem to notice the way my eyes widened, or the sudden tightness in my chest. For him, it was just another item on the chore list, no different from a muddy cleat. He tossed it casually onto the coffee table with a soft thud. "Oh, and this too," he said, without a flicker of irony. "Give it a good scrub."

Connor then sighed, stretching his legs out further on the table, wiggling his socked toes. "Before you get started on all that, though, my feet are killing me. Seriously sore. Just a quick massage to work out the kinks." He settled back, closing his eyes, clearly expecting immediate compliance.

I knelt by the couch, a familiar pang of humiliation mixing with a strange relief at his less authoritarian tone. He extended his feet, still in their white athletic socks, the fabric stretched taut over his instep. With a deep breath, I reached down, my fingers brushing the soft cotton, and slowly, carefully, peeled off one sock. The elastic band around his ankle left a faint, temporary red mark on his fair skin. Then I removed the other, the air in the basement feeling cool against his now bare skin. A faint, distinct scent of exertion and used cleat leather wafted up, a warm, earthy aroma that was uniquely "Connor" after practice.

Connor's bare feet, once freed from his athletic socks, were surprisingly well-maintained for a boy his age, a testament perhaps to his mother's insistence on hygiene or simply good genetics. The skin was healthy, fair with a very light tan, smooth across the arch and top, with a slightly thicker, more resilient texture on the soles, particularly under the balls and heels, where the skin was faintly pinker from pressure and the faint lines of his skin were more pronounced. His heels were slightly calloused, but not rough, and the skin was supple.

His toes were straight and evenly spaced, not cramped or overlapping, each one ending in a neatly rounded tip. The nails were meticulously trimmed, short and clean, showing no signs of dirt or discoloration beneath them. They had a healthy, translucent pinkish hue, almost glowing under the dim basement light. The faint impressions of the sock fibers were still visibly etched on the skin, especially around the ankle and across the top of the foot, like a temporary, fine-mesh pattern.

A few stray bits of white sock lint clung stubbornly between his toes, particularly around the base of the nail. I thought back on what he said in his basement - telling me to remove it . Zack stopped it then but here I instinctively leaned closer, my fingers brushing his skin as I meticulously picked out each piece of lint, trying to make them spotless.

The skin there was softer, slightly paler, and a little damp in spots from being enclosed all day. There was also some lint on the balls of his feet and along the outside edge of his pinky toes, which I also carefully removed, my thumb gently tracing the contours of his foot.

When he moved them, the muscles in his arch and toes flexed subtly, revealing the underlying structure of bone and tendon, a testament to their strength. The overall shape was athletic, with a defined arch and a sturdy, broad heel. There was a faint, clean, slightly soapy scent clinging to them, mixed with a subtle, warm, almost enclosed smell that hinted at hours spent in sneakers – a faint, clean "foot" smell rather than anything truly offensive, but intimate nonetheless.

As my hands began to work on his feet, I started with gentle, circular motions on his arch, then moved to his heel, applying a steady, firm pressure with my thumbs. Connor grunted in satisfaction, a sound that seemed less like a command and more like a genuine sigh of relief. My hands, usually reserved for turning pages or typing, were now serving this purpose, and doing it well enough to earn his approval. It was a skill I never wanted to possess, and yet, a strange validation that I could perform even this demeaning task with a precision that earned his pleasure.

"Oh, yeah, right there," he murmured, his eyes still closed, a relaxed smile spreading across his face. "A little harder on the arch... you really do have a knack for this, Andrew. Seriously, better than my mom, even." He shifted his foot slightly, guiding my hands with a gentle pressure, his bare toes curling slightly with the sensation.

"Just focus on those sore spots, man. Football practice is brutal on the feet. It's like I've been running on concrete all day."

"Now, get that spot right under my big toe, where it connects to the ball of my foot?" Connor continued, his voice a low rumble, still with his eyes closed. "Yeah, there. That's where the cleat pressure usually hits. Dig into that a bit, will ya? It's like a knot."

I adjusted my grip, pressing my thumb firmly into the described area, feeling the muscle yield slightly under the pressure. The skin felt warm and supple beneath my touch, and I could almost feel the tension releasing. It was a strange intimacy, performing such a personal service for someone who held such casual power over me.

"Perfect! Oh, man, that's good. And then, move down to the heel, right on the outside edge. It gets all bruised up from planting." I followed his direction, my fingers tracing the firm curve of his heel, applying more pressure to the outer edge. I could feel the slight roughness of a developing callus there, a testament to the repetitive impact.

"Yeah, just like that. You're getting all the hot spots, Andrew. It's like you know exactly where it hurts." He let out a soft groan of contentment, a low, satisfied sound that vibrated slightly through my fingertips.

"And then, the little toes, man. They get so cramped. Just pull each one gently, like you're stretching them out." I moved to his toes, carefully taking each one between my thumb and forefinger, gently pulling and then rotating it, feeling the small joints click softly. The subtle, warm scent of his skin intensified slightly as I worked on each digit, a clean, almost sweet aroma.

"Ahhh, that's the stuff. This is seriously the best part of my day."

I continued the massage, kneading the balls of his feet, then working my way up to each toe, gently pulling and rotating them. "Are your ankles sore too?" I asked, my voice a low murmur, almost automatic.

"Yeah, a little," he replied, his voice thick with relaxation. "Especially around the outside. Just a quick rub there, too." I moved my hands to his ankles, circling them with my thumbs, feeling the tendons beneath the skin.

"You know," he added, a slight chuckle in his voice, "I used to hate having my feet touched. But with you... it's actually pretty good." He stretched his toes again, a contented sigh escaping him.

"Just a few more minutes, Andrew. This is awesome."

"So, about the laundry," I started, my voice barely a whisper, "do I just put your jersey and pants in with everything else, or...?"

Connor opened one eye, "Yeah, just dump it all in. The laundry basket is in my room, by the door. And don't forget the cup. That thing needs a good scrub, too. Make sure it's spotless." He closed his eyes again, clearly enjoying the moment. "Anything else?"

"Uh, the bathroom," I continued, trying to sound more confident than I felt. "Just general tidying, or...?"

"Yea, just clean it,“ he said, "Wipe down the counter, clean the sink, make sure the mirror's not streaky. Patrick's a slob. Just make it look presentable for when my mom checks." He stretched again, a deep sigh of contentment escaping him.

He continued to offer soft directions, almost conversational. After a few more minutes, he stretched his legs out fully, a deep sigh of contentment escaping him. He then pushed himself up, a new energy in his movements. "Alright, that's definitely better. Thanks, Andrew. Seriously, you're a lifesaver. I'm gonna hit the shower. You get started on that stuff." He sauntered up the stairs, leaving me alone with the daunting list of tasks. .

With Connor disappearing upstairs, I took a moment, the silence of the basement amplifying the weight of the tasks ahead. First, the laundry. "Two flights up on the left," Connor had said. Taking a deep breath, I walked over to the basement stairs and began the ascent. I went up to the next level and found the room on the left. It had a plaque on the door “Connor’s Room” leaving no doubt. I stepped in just in time to see a shirtless Connor heading into the bathroom. The door slid shut and I heard the sound of water running.

His room was a typical boy's lair, a testament to a life lived without much regard for order. Clothes lay in various states of disarray – a discarded t-shirt draped over a gaming chair, jeans pooled on the floor next to a pair of sneakers. Textbooks and crumpled papers were scattered across a desk, vying for space with an assortment of action figures and a half-eaten bag of chips.

Posters of football players and a few band logos adorned the walls, some peeling at the corners. The air, though not unpleasant, carried a faint, stale scent of sports equipment, and whatever had been for breakfast that morning. A large, overflowing hamper sat by the closet door, a mountain of dirty clothes waiting for their turn. I quickly grabbed it and, without lingering, turned to head back downstairs, eager to get the laundry started.

With the overflowing hamper clutched in my arms, I carefully navigated the two flights of stairs back down to the basement. The laundry room, with its humming appliances and faint smell of detergent, felt like a temporary sanctuary from the more personal tasks awaiting me. I set the hamper down beside the washing machine and began to sort through its contents.

It was a typical boy's collection: several pairs of jeans, a mix of graphic tees, plain undershirts, athletic shorts, and a surprising number of socks and underwear, some balled up, others inside out. There were also a couple of towels, damp and smelling faintly of chlorine, likely from swim practice. The sheer volume of it was a little overwhelming, but I tossed everything into the washing machine.

Next, I turned to Connor's football jersey and padded pants, which I'd brought in from outside the basement door. They were stiff with dried mud, especially around the knees and lower legs of the pants, and the jersey had a few dark smudges. I carried them over to the slop sink, turning on the water. Using detergent and a brush, which was on a shelf, I began to scrape and rinse off the worst of the caked-on dirt, watching the muddy water swirl down the drain. It was a messy job. Once the visible mud was gone, I tossed the jersey and pants into the washing machine with the rest of the dark clothes, added detergent and pressed the start button. The machine whirred to life, its rhythmic sloshing a comforting, albeit temporary, distraction.

With the washing machine now humming, I turned my attention to the remaining equipment. The cleats were first. They were heavy with dried mud, caked deep into the studs and along the seams. I found a stiffer brush and a small, pointed tool, perhaps for grout, which proved perfect for the task. I ran warm water, softening the mud, and began to meticulously scrub each cleat. I worked my way around the sides, getting into every crevice of the plastic studs, scraping away the stubborn clumps until the black and white plastic gleamed. The laces, too, were stiff with dirt, so I untied them, scrubbed them under the running water, and laid them out to dry on the edge of the sink.

Next were the shoulder pads and helmet. The shoulder pads, though not muddy, had a faint, stale sweat smell and some scuff marks. I took a damp cloth and carefully wiped down the hard plastic shells, then the padded interior, trying to remove any lingering grime. The helmet was similar, with a few grass stains on the white exterior and a faint odor inside. I used a fresh, damp cloth to clean the shell, the face mask, and then, with a smaller cloth, meticulously wiped the interior padding, ensuring no sweat or dirt remained. I even polished the clear visor until it was sparkling. By the time I was done, the equipment looked almost new, certainly far cleaner than any football gear I'd ever seen. A strange satisfaction settled in my chest. He wanted it clean? I would make it immaculately clean. So clean it would almost mock his casual disregard for the effort he demanded without ever acknowledging.

Finally, my gaze fell on the plastic athletic cup, still sitting innocuously on the coffee table. It wasn't just the object itself, but what it represented. The casual, almost bored way he fished it out, with no thought of where on his body it had been, expecting me to just handle it. A faint, metallic tang, almost like old sweat and something else unidentifiable, seemed to cling to it, even before I started scrubbing. This wasn't just cleaning; it was a forced intimacy with his most private space. Taking a deep, bracing breath, I picked it up with two fingers, trying to avoid direct contact, and carried it carefully to the slop sink. I turned on the water, grabbed a new brush, and began to scrub, focusing on making it spotless, trying to push away the uncomfortable implications of the task itself.

With the equipment sparkling and the cup scrubbed clean, I carefully laid the cleats, shoulder pads, helmet, and the now-gleaming athletic cup on the cool, dry floor of the basement hallway, arranging them neatly. The rhythmic hum of the washing machine was the only sound. My next task: Connor's room and the shared bathroom. Taking a deep breath, I ascended the stairs once more. I reached the second floor and pushed open the door to Connor's room. The sound of running water from the attached bathroom had stopped. As I stepped inside, my eyes immediately landed on Connor. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, wearing nothing but a towel wrapped loosely around his waist, water still glistening on his shoulders and hair. He looked up, catching my gaze, but showed no sign of embarrassment or surprise.

"Oh, hey," he said casually, reaching for a clean pair of boxers from a drawer beside his bed. He pulled them on without a second thought, then stood up, the towel dropping to the floor, leaving him briefly naked. He grabbed a fresh t-shirt and some gym shorts, dressing quickly while I stood there. For a split second, I felt a hot flush through my body. It wasn't just the sight of him, but the sheer, unburdened casualness of it. He saw me, acknowledged me, and then simply continued, as if I were a piece of furniture, a non-person. He seemed utterly oblivious to my presence. He didn't even glance my way as he pulled on his shorts, his focus already shifting to something else entirely. And that invisibility was another subtle kind of humiliation.

"Laundry started?" he asked, pulling his t-shirt over his head.

"Yeah, it's going," I mumbled, my eyes fixed on the floor, trying not to stare.

"Good. Don't forget to switch it to the dryer when it's done," he instructed, pulling up a pair of gym shorts. "And get this place straightened up. Mom's a neat freak."

He glanced around his cluttered room, "I'm heading back down to play some video games. Let me know when you're done up here." With that, he sauntered out of the room, leaving the damp towel on the floor and the bathroom door slightly ajar.

Left alone, I surveyed the chaos. I started with the bed, pulling the sheets taut and smoothing the rumpled comforter. Then, I tackled the floor, picking up discarded clothes and tossing them into the laundry hamper I'd just emptied. I found a pair of his boxer briefs, rolled into a tight ball, still carrying the faint, humid scent of his skin from earlier. My fingers grazed the slightly tacky fabric, and then I spotted a wadded-up tissue, stiff with whatever had come out of his nose, stuck to the carpet near his bed. Textbooks were stacked neatly on the desk, and the crumpled papers found their way into the wastebasket. The action figures were lined up on a shelf, and the half-eaten bag of chips was tied shut and placed on the nightstand. I even wiped down the dusty surfaces of the desk and nightstand with a tissue.

Next, I moved to the Jack and Jill bathroom, sliding open the door. It was, as Connor had promised, a mess! Connor had admitted it was bad, but I wasn't expecting toothpaste splattered on the mirror like abstract art or a gritty film on the sink. The worst part was the faint, dried streaks on the toilet and the weird, organic smell – definitely more than just a humid bathroom.

There were a few damp towels balled up on the floor and next to them was Connor’s just worn boxer-briefs and the athletic supporter strap that had held in his cup. This all contributed to the musty smell. In the shower there were bottles and tubes were everywhere, caps off. Then I saw the toilet, and it was just gross. Unflushed, with a pale yellow film and fresh droplets running down to an older, darker stain on the tile. He'd clearly just used it after his shower and walked away, leaving this behind. The rest of the floor was swept, but this new yellow stain, right next to an old faded one, was a permanent reminder.

Taking a deep breath (it didn't help much with the smell), I grabbed a paper towel and all-purpose cleaner. Kneeling down, I wiped the yellow stain, and it was a sticky, yellowish smear. A sharp, pungent smell stung my nose. I scrubbed harder, feeling the gritty resistance, until the tile was finally clean, just smelling like disinfectant.

With that out of the way, I started on the rest. I tossed the damp towels and clothes into the hamper, then sprayed and wiped the mirror until it gleamed. I vigorously scrubbed the sink, getting rid of the toothpaste, and organized all the toiletries. By the time I was done, the bathroom, like Connor's bedroom, was totally transformed. It went from a chaotic teenager's zone to super tidy and presentable – a calm spot in a previously messy landscape.

With the upstairs tasks complete, I headed back down to the basement. As I descended the steps, I could hear the faint sounds of a video game, confirming Connor was indeed back in the main room. When I reached the bottom, I saw him sprawled on the couch again, controller in hand. His bare, fully massaged feet were propped on the coffee table, gleaming faintly under the basement lights. They looked utterly content, utterly relaxed, a stark, silent monument to my new reality. And as I watched them, a knot began to form in my stomach, a feeling that this was only the beginning, and I had no idea how to stop it.

He paused his game, slowly putting the controller down. A genuine look of astonishment, followed by a wide, impressed grin, spread across his face as he looked towards the hallway where I'd left the cleaned equipment. He must have seen it already. "Whoa," he breathed, his voice practically vibrating with excitement, pushing himself up and practically jogging over to the display. He picked up a cleat, turning it over in his hand. "Dude, these are unbelievable! Seriously, I've never seen them this clean. And the helmet? You even got the visor sparkling like new!" He ran a hand over the shoulder pads, then picked up the athletic cup, held it to his nose and sniffed - "you even got it to smell good. This is... amazing, Andrew. Like, mind-blowing amazing. You totally blew me away!" His tone was devoid of any sarcasm or veiled threats, replaced by an almost childlike delight. "I told you you had a knack for this stuff. My mom's gonna freak out when she sees it!"

He clapped me on the shoulder, a friendly, appreciative gesture this time. "Seriously, man, thank you. You just made my life so much easier."

Just then, the washing machine chimed, signaling the end of its cycle. "Oh, perfect timing," Connor said, gesturing towards the laundry room. "Alright, go ahead and toss that stuff in the dryer."

I nodded, feeling a strange mix of pride and continued resignation. Walking into the laundry room, I opened the washing machine, the clothes now clean and damp. I methodically transferred each item – the jeans, t-shirts, shorts, socks, underwear, and the football jersey and pants – into the dryer, ensuring nothing was left behind. I closed the dryer door, selected the appropriate setting, and pressed start. The new hum of the dryer joined the quiet of the basement, a testament to the completed tasks.

With the dryer now humming, Connor looked up from his game, a casual invitation in his eyes. "Hey, you're all done with that, right? Want to play a round or two? I'm just about to start a new match." He gestured to the second controller on the coffee table.

A flicker of surprise passed through me. This was part of the "private stuff," I supposed – a reward, or perhaps just another way to keep me engaged.

"Uh, sure," I mumbled, picking up the controller. It felt foreign in my hands, heavy with the unspoken rules of this new arrangement. We started playing, the sounds of explosions and gunfire filling the basement. Connor was good, effortlessly navigating the virtual world, shouting out strategies and laughing when he scored a point.

I tried to focus on the game, but my eyes kept drifting. Connor's legs and feet, now bare and gleaming, were propped up on the coffee table again, just inches away from my hand holding the controller. They looked almost unnervingly perfect – the smooth unblemished skin, the short, neat toenails, the pink soles.

My mind went through a strange mix of thoughts. The lingering unease from the cup, the humiliation of scrubbing every inch of his athletic gear, the faint scent of his feet from the massage – it all swirled together. Yet, bizarrely, there was also an undeniable satisfaction in seeing them so clean, knowing I had made them that way. It was a strange, secret intimacy, one nobody else would ever know.

He was so relaxed, so oblivious to any turmoil he may have caused, simply enjoying the game and the comfort of his freshly massaged, perfectly clean feet. And I, the older one, was sitting here, playing his game, acutely aware of every detail of his bare feet, a silent testament to my new, strange servitude. I wondered if he even remembered the incident that started all this, or if it was just a distant, amusing memory to him now. To me, it was constant and now tied to the sight of his perfectly clean toes.

Connor finally pushed the controller aside, stretching languidly. "Alright, that was good. But hey, let's go check out the masterpiece upstairs, shall we?" He didn't wait for an answer, already pushing himself off the couch. My stomach tightened. The brief reprieve of the game was over, replaced by the familiar apprehension. I followed him up the two flights of stairs, acutely aware of his casual stride ahead of me, and the damp towel still lying on his bedroom floor that I hadn't picked up. His bare feet, still gleaming, moved with a light, almost springy step, effortlessly skipping a stair every two steps, a casual display of youthful energy.

He sauntered into his room, surveying it with a slow, deliberate gaze that felt heavy on me. He walked straight to the bed, running a hand over the smoothed comforter. "Wow, Andrew! This is incredible!" he breathed, his voice filled with genuine glee. He then moved to the desk, picking up a stacked textbook, then setting it back down precisely. "And the desk? Spotless! Seriously, how did you even get it this clean?"

He even bent down, peering under the bed, before straightening up with a triumphant nod. "You even got all the stray socks. Unbelievable!" He glanced at the laundry hamper, which now only had the few clothes that I had picked up. "Good, you actually took care of all that too." My gaze flickered to the damp towel still on the floor near the bathroom door, hoping he wouldn't notice. He didn't.

"Now, the bathroom," Connor announced, sliding open the door with a flourish. He stepped inside, running a finger along the mirror, then the sink faucet. "No streaks! This is insane! And the counter's actually clear."

He peered into the toilet bowl, a wide grin spreading across his face as he saw it was now flushed and clean. He lifted the seat looking at the rim and then glanced down to the floor. "And you even handled that!"

He turned, leaning against the doorframe, his eyes meeting mine with a casual, almost proprietorial satisfaction. "Solid work, Andrew. Seriously. You really do know how to make a place look decent. I knew I could count on you." He gave a final, approving nod, then turned and headed back downstairs, leaving the bathroom door slightly ajar again. The inspection was over.

I held a second as he headed down quickly picking up the towel and depositing it into the hamper. I then followed him down.

As I reached the bottom of the stairs, Connor was already back on the couch, controller in hand, the game's sounds once again filling the room. He glanced up, a faint, satisfied smile playing on his lips. "Seriously, Andrew," he said, his voice casual, almost a little bored now that the 'inspection' was over, "thanks again for everything. My mom's going to be thrilled, and my feet are definitely happy." Just then, the dryer chimed, signaling the end of its cycle. "Oh, perfect timing again," Connor said, gesturing towards the laundry room. "Alright, when that's done, grab all my stuff, fold it neatly, and put it away upstairs. You know the drill: underwear and socks in the top drawer of my dresser, t-shirts in the second, and jeans and shorts go in the closet on the left side. Then you're good to go."

I nodded, feeling a strange mix of pride and continued resignation. Walking into the laundry room, I opened the dryer, the clothes now warm and soft. I methodically pulled out each item, folding them into neat, precise rectangles. The jeans, the graphic tees, the plain undershirts, the athletic shorts, the socks, and the underwear – each piece was carefully smoothed and creased. With the folded pile clutched in my arms, I ascended the two flights of stairs to Connor's room once more. I opened his dresser drawers, placing his underwear and socks meticulously into the top one, and his t-shirts into the second. Then, I moved to his closet, hanging his jeans and shorts on the left side, ensuring they were perfectly aligned. The room, now spotless and organized, felt strangely satisfying.

I descended the stairs, the basement air feeling lighter now that all the tasks were complete. Connor looked up from his game as I reached the bottom. "All done?" he asked, a hint of genuine appreciation in his voice. "Awesome. See ya around, Andrew." The words were polite enough, but the tone, the quick glance back to his game, and the casual wave of his hand, made it clear: my purpose for the day was fulfilled, and I was now free to go, a temporary servant released until the next scheduled session.

I mumbled a faint "Bye," and turned, the click of the backyard gate closing behind me feeling less like an escape and more like the sealing of a silent, binding contract.

The walk home was surprisingly quiet, my thoughts a jumble of relief and lingering unease. It hadn't been as bad as I'd feared. Connor had been... nice, even. His genuine delight at the clean room and equipment, his contented sighs during the foot massage – it was a side of him I hadn't expected. It was a camaraderie, a transactional 'nice,' a pleasantness born of satisfaction, but it was still a stark contrast to the biting humiliation of the foot kissing. Maybe, I thought, this wouldn't be so terrible after all. Maybe I could even get used to it. The thought, fleeting and unsettling, made me quicken my pace.