Shadows crawl along the ceiling of my room, whispering so as not to wake me, but I am not sleeping.
I have cold feet.
Shrouded in a blanket nest with a heating pad pulsing warmth into my stomach, my feet keep me awake. I think my blood only circulates as far as my ankles and then makes a U-turn. Or someone sawed off my feet and sewed on a pair from a corpse. Maybe I am Frankenstein’s monster.
I hear the shhhhhhhhooooo of car tires on slick pavement outside and headlights travel across my walls. Maybe if I close my window, my feet will warm up. Probably if I put on socks, but sleeping in socks is like wearing a turtleneck in the tropics, or drinking wine out of a Styrofoam cup. They just don’t go together. Maybe if I drink some wine, my feet will warm up. Maybe my mind would stop whining and unwind.
Maybe I shouldn’t. It gives me bad dreams, dreams where I arrive at my own wedding unprepared, or where I am trapped in a house with stinging eyes, plagued mercilessly by friends who aren’t listening on the right and people who construe what I say on the left, and from all sides, loved-ones leaving. Funny that in my dreams, I am never the one with cold feet.
Sometimes during the day, I have cold feet. Probably because I hate wearing socks and shoes. Sometimes I walk alone with the chill of unspoken words haunting my footsteps, waiting for the sun to warm the concrete so I can walk bare without cold feet. Sometimes the sun is a long time coming.
Right now it is a long time coming, waiting for the shadows to climb down the walls and recede into the floorboards at the peeking of his eyes through the blinds. But he will come, bringing warmth, and I hope, bravery.
Maybe in the morning, I will walk without cold feet.