She’s sitting at the end of the bed and washing her toes with baby wipes, she does it every night just after the 10 o’clock news. I think her toenails are rubbing away. The soles of her feet always seem to be covered in some sort of greenish moss. I get a bit freaked out that it might be some sort of contagious fungus, but I never ask, the vinagary smell of the wipes often get me out of the bed and dressed before I can gather up the courage to. I hid the wipes a few weeks ago while she was in the bathroom, just to try and get her out of the habit, or at least in the shower, but she howled like a banshee for twenty minutes and tore the room apart, knocking over the wardrobe and smashing the built in mirror. I didn’t realise she had it in her, she’s such a small thing. She eventually found the wipes under the cat basket in the corner of the room and glared into my eyes as if she was cursing my soul to hell. I lowered my eyes and started to murmur that she must have been drunk and moved them herself but she grabbed a shard of mirror off the floor, splitting open her thumb, and waved it at my face, slightly piercing my left cheek. I called her a crazy butch lesbian in the most unmanly voice I’ve ever mustered and ran out the door half dressed and trying not to cry. I don’t think she’s forgotten, but here I am again, watching her pull out another vinegary wipe from the packet, gently washing her moss coloured toes and humming some tune I vaguely remember from my childhood.
Bed Toe – A Very Short Story