Sole Confessions Under Blue Glow

The first time I noticed her feet, we were at a diner off Route 9, the kind with cracked vinyl booths and coffee that tasted like burnt pennies. She’d kicked off her sandals under the table, one leg folded beneath her, and when she reached for the sugar, her toes brushed against my shin. Just a graze—accidental, probably. But my breath caught like I’d been caught stealing.