I have—did someone ask?—a dashing, even courtly, pair of feet. They stand out: trimmer than fine hairbrushes are. I’m hurt now that she hasn’t congratulated them. But she, Elaine Hyams, is at the foot of this massage table, playing my toes as though each was a small organ stop. Then instep and ankle and ball, subtle bone join and cuboid notch: my feet clack like rosaries. Elaine is petite, blurry-featured, smart, and more self-effacing than a dewclaw. Also thumb-strong. Foot reflexology can cause pain: but with that voluptuous pleasure-burn, the kind you get running hot water over poisonsumac boils. I didn’t realize my feet were this extensive. One little piggy went to market and did so damn much. I feel planed down, sculpted—I have feet of wet clay for her. It is a confident, stress-managing treatment. The one more powerful foot experience would be Holy Thursday in Jerusalem.
“Whoop,” I say. There is vivid, particular pain beneath the left toe ridge.
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