Jason was in the stands, watching the game. Not the game of the ball flying over the net, but the game of feet. The beautiful, agile, bare feet in the sand bounding back and forth.
He knew Amanda’s feet. She was the best in the game. Fast, and powerful. Her feet were small and arched. Each descended in order, curving perfectly across the top. Greek feet. Each step she took was precise, always landing on the ball of her foot, showing off her deep arches to the stands — to Jason.
He had come to every game for months and each passing week she had responded to his stares with longer flashes of her bare soles in his direction.
Amanda took care of her feet. They were always smooth, even after a hard game, and each nail was carefully trimmed with a fine layer of clear, glossy polish. They glistened in the sun, sand sticking in the cracks.
They were geffing closer, stepping over the wooden planks in his direction. He hadn’t even noticed when the game ended.
She feigned a conversation with another fan, but flexed her foot back and forth before Jason, pretending it was only to stretch them after a hard game.
She laughed forcedly at some lame joke the guy next to him made and excused herself. She turned and fell over Jason, making petty excuses as she got up. “Terribly sorry,” she whispered as she dragged her feet along his. She let her hands rest against his knees leaning over him. “I didn’t even see you sitting there,” she said. “I’m so sorry.” He smiled. “It’s fine.
See you friends,