The same old

The smell of my feet makes me uncomfortable.  I left my shoes outside of the front door of the last three apartments to not drag it in. But here it is. And I can't avoid it. You run from something long enough and eventually you forget about it. 

Or it catches up. 

I bartered with this guy I used to work with, Juan, for his back stock of those odor eating shoe inserts. I've been out for months. 

Juan used to pick up dishes from dirty tables at the restaurant I worked at. Not the one with the shitty boss. But the one that gave vacation time if you worked six day a week. Juan worked six days there. And seven at the place with the shoe inserts. He always showed up with a tie and no name tag. I suspected he made his other seven days out to be better than these six. But when we are both just trying to get by unnoticed you don't ask to much about it. 

But back to the issue at hand. 

Or foot. 

I can't sleep. I can smell my feet through the sheets. And the blanket. And the comforter. And the stench lingers. And settles in my nose. And I think about the last time it happened. 

I had athlete's foot the day before the first day of junior high.  I stayed up all night worried I wouldn't fit in. And that the older kids would know my feet itched. And that first day of gym we'd have a lady come in and check our toes and if we weren't clean I'd be destined to seventh grade forever. 

I never want to be in seventh grade again. 

Especially forever. 

Further and further

Lacy cleans the windows once a week. On Thursday. One week she does the inside. The next week the outside. Except the small window in her closet. 

It's useless, by the way. The window, at least. 

She leaves the closet door closed. Except when she's getting dressed. And she makes sure her kids don't use it as a hiding place when they play hide and seek. 

Stacey hid there once about three years ago. When Lacy found him wedged between her winter coat and a dress she wore in high school she pulled him out by his wrist and slapped his face. His tears mixed with the blood from his nose as he ran out the front door and down the street. Lacy ran her fingers down the seam of the dress. 

When she does open the closet door she traces the curves of an S that's worn it's way through the dirt on the tiny window. She presses her thumb hard into the glass at the end. She closes her eyes and hears the last thing he said. 

"Merry Christmas, and a happy new year."