Perfect Girl - Weebly

PLAY button on the remote control. I hear a disco version of
the Star Wars theme. Slipping out of my sandals, I plunk my
bare feet on the coffee table, too. Admiring my newly
painted toenails, I almost don’t notice Perry’s feet. Then I
do. Is it possible I’d never seen his bare feet before? I must
have—at least in the wading pool when we were kids. Now,
though, the sight of his feet quickens my pulse. It feels
incredibly intimate. Like he’s naked. His toes are straight
and bony, with fuzzy strawberry-blond hairs. The nails are
cut short. There’s a sprinkle of freckles on the tops of his
feet, his heels are pink. Honestly, I’ve never seen feet so
beautiful.
We watch the movie, munch popcorn.
All of a sudden, Perry tilts his foot to the right and
lightly touches the bottom of my foot. It’s soft, almost ticklish.
I press my foot into his. He doesn’t move it. He even
presses his foot into mine. Our feet stay together, like hands
holding.
I can barely breathe.
The movie continues to play, but I can’t hear anything
but the whooshing of blood pulsing through my ears.
Then Perry looks at me, and I look at him. We have a
moment.
We’re frozen like that, for what seems like an hour.
Touching feet, touching hearts. My chest is on fire. Is this
what they mean when they say, “Love hurts”?
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