I detached my own foot and set it gently on the glass table.
The sock still clings to it, blinding white, with that bright red tape banded just above the ankle like a freshly sealed gift. Sole facing up, the arch drawn into a clean, taut curve, skin glistening faintly with residual moisture—still warm from my body.
I stared at it for a while. Toes curled slightly, as if waiting for an order or already accustomed to being watched. The sole’s ridges and lines stood out sharply.
I ran a finger along the arch, slow. Soft yet firm; when I pressed, the flesh gave a small, elastic rebound. The tape’s edge felt sticky, making a tiny ripping sound as it grazed skin. I didn’t tear it off—just traced that red boundary line again and again with my fingertip. This was once attached to me. Now it belongs only to itself, and to whoever wants to do whatever to it right now.
I know what comes next. It’s already ready.
Very nice