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His Feet?


His feet

Bob looked down at his feet and felt nothing but alienation. How could it be that these were his feet? Forty-three years above the pair, and yet he felt no more connection to them than he did to the tires on his car. He stared at the white simulated-leather tennis shoes and thought they might be empty. Or contain the feet of some random person from Asia, or from Pittsburgh. And he thought, “Tennis?”
 
He remembered that once when he was a kid, running barefoot through a vacant lot, he’d stepped on nail. He couldn’t remember if it had pierced the left foot, or the right. But he winced.

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