The other night, after I detached myself from the computer downstairs, Jeff and I retired to the bedroom. We were lying in bed, recounting funny Lily, Ben and Evan stories from the day. I was trying to manipulate a foot rub out of him by pathetically caressing his leg with my toes. My feet were still sore from the three hour stint in heels and I was desperate. Jeff blatantly ignored my efforts. Finally, I resorted to begging. Can you please just rub me? Puh-leeeease, Jeff?
Ugh. I am not rubbing your feet, he responded disdainfully.
Why not, I whined? You think my feet are cute. And they really hurt. Pretty please?
Your feet used to be cute, he answered. They used to be, um…uh…painted.
So, imagine them red, I retorted.
Well, he continued, they used to be cuter. Just, um… different… uh, just…
What? He defensively asked, after I shot him a look cluing him in that he’d said something really, really wrong. You’re, like, thirteen years older than when we met, he continued. Of course your feet look older. Do you think your mother’s feet are “cute?” As you get older your feet become less cute. That’s life. You know?
No, Jeffrey, I do not know.
He could have said anything: Your feet are dry, Jill. They’re veiny. They’re rough. They’re scaley. Fat, even. But old? OLD??? They are none of those things, for the record. They could certainly benefit from a good foot rub with some moisturizing lotion, but are fine, and a mere thirty one years young.
So that’s when I killed him.