hoof

“What is that?” he asked, picking up my foot from behind as if it were a horse’s hoof and nearly sending me sprawling forward. “I can’t see whatever it is. Get it.” I didn’t know whether to be angry or amused and I wanted to laugh but it came out like a short cough. He peeled something off my heel and set my foot down. “What is this?” he asked, scratching at a little black thing stuck to his thumb.

It was a photo corner, and I told him so. It must have adhered to my foot when I got out of the shower and walked around barefoot and it was somehow on the floor. “You’re such a bohemian, Lola,” he rolled it into a little ball and began to search for a trash can. “Whenever I look at you it’s like looking at my grandpa.” I swallowed. “Don’t you mean, um, mother? Or grandma, even?” He shook his head. “Damnit where’s your trash! But no, grandpa.” He turned around and looked at me. “It’s very comforting.”

I coughed a little more.

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5 thoughts on “hoof

  1. Thanks for the like on my blog. I have to type here because something similar happened to me today. I visited a new patient, someone I haven’t seen before. Her first words to me were “you look so much bigger in your picture.” (ID badge). Time to get a new picture 😉

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