A Strangely Intimate Moment With A Stranger in Gettysburg
Posted by reallyrelyay | | Posted On Thursday, April 10, 2008 at 3:39 PM
That morning my heal was bleeding so much my shoe turned mauve. The cut had been aggravated for so long by the backs of my shoes that, like a buddhist monk in meditation, I rose above my own pain. It wasn't until a mosquito bit my other calf that I noticed. Lifting my right foot to scratch the itch on my calf with my toe, I felt my heal stick to my shoe.
What I would do for a pair of sandals.
It was a bad idea to wear brand new shoes when we walked from the Lincoln Memorial to the Smithsonian a few days prior. I hobbled toward the door of the coffee shop. A sharp pain, like a ten inch needle going up my calf, accompanied me.
"Do you have any band-aids?"
The tall man behind the counter had dark curly hair and stood with the regality of a greek statue. I felt like Quasimodo trapsing into the coffee shop door. He raised an eyebrow at my question, and I twisted my leg so he could see. His eyes opened wide. There were spots of blood on the floor beneath my foot. He came from behind the counter and he led me, lightly, by my elbow, to a set of stairs in the back part of the sitting room. Despite his obvious strength he handled me as lightly as he would a bird with a broken wing. His gesture told me to sit down on he stairs, so I did. Then he left for a moment back into the kitchen.
I looked down at my heel. The woven fabric of my white flat was fully saturated with blood. It felt as hot and sticky as the July air outside. The toes of the shoes were now worn and grey, fringing around the edges. The dark maple hard wood shined beneath them. The bottom of my soles were wearing away and dark brown. I had bought those shoes two weeks before we left for tour. I thought about leaving, walking out the coffee shop door, and just dealing with my mess, but the man was coming back from the kitchen with a band-aid and a sanitary wipe.
He sat down on a stair below me and placed my leg on his knee. He took off my shoe and placed it on the stair next to him and began to clean off the cut, which had began to clot. I held his shoulder when the disinfectant stung. He did not look up. His hands were clean, he didn't even have any hang nails. They were clipped to perfection, no room for dirt or espresso grinds or anything of that nature to sneak under his nails. He opened the band-aid and spread it over the wound. His fingers spread apart over my heal. With the way the band-aid matched the color of my skin it seemed like the wound disappeared. It was then that he looked up at me, his brown eyes held mine steady. It felt like he had been looking at me the whole time.
"Thanks."
I was barely audible. I put on my shoe as he stood. It stung. We smiled at each other.
There's a scar where it was, but that's when it started to heal.
What I would do for a pair of sandals.
It was a bad idea to wear brand new shoes when we walked from the Lincoln Memorial to the Smithsonian a few days prior. I hobbled toward the door of the coffee shop. A sharp pain, like a ten inch needle going up my calf, accompanied me.
"Do you have any band-aids?"
The tall man behind the counter had dark curly hair and stood with the regality of a greek statue. I felt like Quasimodo trapsing into the coffee shop door. He raised an eyebrow at my question, and I twisted my leg so he could see. His eyes opened wide. There were spots of blood on the floor beneath my foot. He came from behind the counter and he led me, lightly, by my elbow, to a set of stairs in the back part of the sitting room. Despite his obvious strength he handled me as lightly as he would a bird with a broken wing. His gesture told me to sit down on he stairs, so I did. Then he left for a moment back into the kitchen.
I looked down at my heel. The woven fabric of my white flat was fully saturated with blood. It felt as hot and sticky as the July air outside. The toes of the shoes were now worn and grey, fringing around the edges. The dark maple hard wood shined beneath them. The bottom of my soles were wearing away and dark brown. I had bought those shoes two weeks before we left for tour. I thought about leaving, walking out the coffee shop door, and just dealing with my mess, but the man was coming back from the kitchen with a band-aid and a sanitary wipe.
He sat down on a stair below me and placed my leg on his knee. He took off my shoe and placed it on the stair next to him and began to clean off the cut, which had began to clot. I held his shoulder when the disinfectant stung. He did not look up. His hands were clean, he didn't even have any hang nails. They were clipped to perfection, no room for dirt or espresso grinds or anything of that nature to sneak under his nails. He opened the band-aid and spread it over the wound. His fingers spread apart over my heal. With the way the band-aid matched the color of my skin it seemed like the wound disappeared. It was then that he looked up at me, his brown eyes held mine steady. It felt like he had been looking at me the whole time.
"Thanks."
I was barely audible. I put on my shoe as he stood. It stung. We smiled at each other.
There's a scar where it was, but that's when it started to heal.
