“They don’t even look like my feet anymore,” I said.
Daniel sat on the rug, rubbing one foot between his hands.
“They’re beautiful.”
“You’re a liar.”
“A supportive liar.”
“Do you understand that none of my shoes fit?”
“We’ll buy bigger shoes.”
“I don’t want bigger shoes.”
He looked up, smiling.
“Then I’ll carry you.”
I rolled my eyes.
Carol, who had stopped by with dinner, stood in the kitchen.
When I looked toward her, she quickly turned away.
A few days later, I found Daniel sitting alone in the car outside our building.
There were papers on his lap.
“What are you doing out here?”
He was startled, folded the papers, and pushed them into the glove compartment.
“Nothing.”
“What was that?”
“Work stuff.”
“Since when do you do work in the car?”
“Since my wife took over every flat surface in our apartment with baby things.”
I smacked his arm.
