Ending the week with another feet-related piece of fiction!
Clipping Annalisa's toenails was a nightmare. She would squirm back and forth, wriggling her smelly 6-year-old feet, and her eyes would grow wide at the sight of the nail clippers. No promise of "it won't hurt" or "it will take just a second" would placate her. She would run down the hall, her bare feet making little wet footprints on the tile floor, until her pursuers stopped chasing. When she was older, her feet were always crammed into unforgiving pointy-toed heels in a medley of colors. Jade, coral, cerulean, and burgundy would be printed in all black typeface on the sides of shoe boxes shipped to her door. Somehow, they always looked stunning.