Feet for hands

‘Henry?’

He smiled, he’d been waiting for this. Adjusting his arm beneath her, he stretched it out to knot his fingers in hers, stopping them from dancing across the sheets. He smoothed the hair on her head before resting his chin on it and replied.

‘Yes?’ 

‘What would you do if I had feet where my hands should be and hands where my feet should be?’ 

Her questions always came at night and had become increasingly frequent. 

‘It depends, would that have always been the case or is it a sudden overnight thing?’

She took her time to respond.

‘I’ve been like that my whole life.’

‘There’s no way you’d be in my bed right now.’

‘Damn…’

Silence, though he was still waiting. 

‘Henry?’

There was never only one round of questioning. 

‘Yes?’

‘What would you do if I was really bad at singing but I thought I was really good and I wanted to go on one of those TV shows and sing in front of the whole world?’

This was a new subject area, beyond that of body parts swapping places and imagined diagnoses of life threatening illnesses. 

‘But you’re not a bad singer?’

‘Just if!’ 

He wondered whether to give her the answer she was hoping for or to continue playing with her peculiar little mind. 

‘Well I’d let you do it, get a good laugh and then deny knowing you.’

He felt her body deflate a little in his arms. Her head shifted beneath his chin as she sunk deeper into the pillow.

‘Henry?’ 

This voice was quieter. 

‘Yes?’

‘What would you do if I refused to eat anything that wasn’t pureed, even in restaurants and things?’

He let a small laugh slip into her hair, kissing the top of her head. 

‘I’d buy a blender.’

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