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“Go away, Rick, I don’t want to see you.”“I brought you coffee and a sandwich, Mom.”“Go away, Rick, I don’t want to see you,” she repeated.“Okay ... um ... uh ... I’ll leave the tray here.”“Go away, Rick.”Back in the kitchen, having demolished my sandwich, drinking my second cup of coffee, and reviewing the events of the day, I heard the squeak of Mom’s door opening. Seconds later, I heard the clip clop of her slippers on the stairs. I lost all sense of bravado and manliness, wanting to run away.Unfortunately, I guess, Mom was at the doorway, blocking my exit, before I could make my legs move. I looked at her in silence. My mother wasn’t dressed as she had been the last time I saw her. She was wearing a baggy sweatshirt and matching nearly worn out sweat pants.Mom was the first of us to break the silence.“Thank you for the sandwich and coffee.”Apparently I was not quite up to speaking at the moment as although my mouth opened and lips moved, no sounds came out. I was able to nod. I gazed wistfully out at the maelstrom, wondering if we'd even make the opera that night."Why don't you admit that you have a thing for my feet," purred Laura, sitting back and crossing her legs, raising one foot and pointing the toes of her shoe at me accusingly."I... what?" I said, shaking my head, feeling suddenly dizzy.Laura laughed, that enchanting, melodic laugh that made boys at college do cartwheels to impress her, the laugh that had made me want to do the same for the last four years. "Oh, Jess," she sighed, shaking her head, "you think you're being so discrete, but I see you, I know what you're doing." Her tone was one of mock admonishment."I don't know what you're t-talking about," I stammered, shaking my head. "Say, is the rain easing off?" I added, trying to change the subject."Honey, I'm talking about the way you're always sneaking glances at my feet. That dopey, faraway expression you get, as if you're self-administering ketamine! You have a foot fetish, don't you? You.
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