By Mixolydian
It was a truly surreal moment, looking at her red toenails on that afternoon together.
How many nights had I watched her, sitting on the couch beside me, painting her nails as we did our nightly routine? The latest show on Netflix; a discussion about our life or family; throwing creative ideas around. All while she applied bits of color to the tips of her fingers and toes. This simple activity, adorning herself in reds and pinks and other colors. Touching up her beauty with intricate care and detail, the familiar chemical smell of nail polish remover wafting between us. A common image from our many years together as husband and wife.
Sometimes she might ask me, “Do you like this color?”
I share my opinions, almost always positive, even if I don’t actually have one. She would tell me that red is sexy. I got that. Red, the color of hunger, desire, action. It made sense, but I understood it only mentally—theoretically—not viscerally. I would agree and turn my attention back to whichever show we were watching.
I always admired her work, her attention to detail, the way she painted these small points at the end of her body. Sometimes I would joke that I would make a terrible woman, having to work on myself in this way. My fingers and toes would be a fine mess of colors outside of the lines. But all the while, I marveled at the way she worked and reveled in these ministrations of womanhood. The way she cared to make herself even more beautiful, down to these fine details.
So strange that on that afternoon, I was captivated by her red toenails. Toenails that floated in the air, suspended in time and space. Toenails seen from a new angle—a new perspective. Of all the things to be watching and seeing, I could not take my eyes off of her red toenails.
Toenails connected to feet that were in the air above the bed. Feet connected to legs that were spread and pointing skyward. Legs connected to a body in the throes of passion, moving in a dance of desire and delicious depravity. A body connected to a mind fully lost in a moment of physical, sexual abandon.
Her red toenails were merely a small section in a large picture that day. They were a vessel, a vision into another level of her beauty that I had never fully realized. Not until that afternoon did I understand just how beautiful my wife really was.
And all it took was seeing her make love to another man.
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