Bare feet

 

"I like bare feet the most," Karol said, and moved down a little. "You have beautiful feet, really. And that's exactly why I love you. For those perfectly manicured nails, for the color of the nail polish, for the tan on them. You know I love that," he sighed, and moved down even further. "You're sweating, honey. Your sweat isn't the best idea. Besides, you know that because you love me," he laughed. "But please, stop sweating, because I hope you realize the dangers." More laughter. "Just stop sweating. Please. Please, honey."

It started innocently. They met in front of the church. After mass. She stepped out and lit a cigarette. Karol was taken by this. He thought that since she lit a cigarette after mass, it must be some kind of sign.

Karol was a loner. He rarely made friends, was occasionally seen in the shop, and quietly went about his job at the auto repair shop. In fact, almost no one remembered his name, and absolutely no one would remember Karol if they had to answer the question of who lived in that house on the corner. That's Karol's portrait. And now back in front of the church.

A captivated Karol approaches Mirka, for that's the name of the girl with the cigarette, and says,

"Bare feet are my favorite."

The girl looks at Karol dispassionately. Her gaze is fixed on Karol's nose, on which a freshly squeezed pimple, shining like a beacon, further enhances Karol's image.

"Me too," she replies boldly. "Take them off," she says.

Yes, she's talking about shoes, which Karol doesn't immediately grasp. She looks up at the sun, takes a drag on her cigarette, and once again, this time more sharply,

"Take them off, you bastard!"

Karol drops to his knees. He understands she's referring to the shoes. He also understands that she's allowed him to take them off. He's thrilled. And excited. She's wheezing a little, but only he knows it's more asthma than a sudden adrenaline rush.

"Now socks," Mirka orders with a smile, and takes another drag on her cigarette. Karol carefully, almost reverently, removes her socks and touches her bare feet.

"Did I let you touch me?!" Mirka shouts, throwing the cigarette butt onto the sidewalk and stubbing it out. She stubs it out with her bare foot.

"What are you doing?!" Karol shouts.

"Stopping it out!" Mirka laughs and lifts her leg. The cigarette butt is stuck to her skin. "Take it off."

Karol obediently takes it off and, with a slightly shaking hand, raises it toward Mirka. He correctly predicts that Mirka will want to see the butt, but he doesn't anticipate that Mirka will want to put it in her pocket, which Karol, very surprised but submissive and uncompromising, does.

At this point, you're probably asking, Dear Reader, why I placed Mirka and Karol in front of the church, after Sunday mass. For a provocation? No. To give the story a social resonance? Perhaps, but that wasn't the intention.

The premise was for Mirka to leave the church at a moment when everyone had long since left. So, there can be no outrage over the act of removing shoes and socks. It's also a premise that the church remains open, which also raises the correct assumption that the temple needs to be used for the rest of the story. And the final premise, let's say... no, I won't reveal that.

Suddenly, Mirka turns and, telling Karol to follow her, confidently enters the church. Karol, like a beaten dog, stumbling and gasping for breath, runs after the girl who has just entered the hall, has just dipped her hand in holy water, and has just knelt to pray. Karol, repeating the actions exactly, never took his eyes off Mirka. She proud and focused on prayer, she rising and walking to the side, she in the doorway, she on the winding staircase. He was amazed, unable to take his eyes off her. He began to whisper her name under his breath like a prayer, closing his eyes every now and then, remembering how she stood there in front of the church, smoking a cigarette.

"Stop!" he heard her sharp voice. "Don't sleep!" she laughed, and he opened his eyes.

Ahead were the tower doors. The tower doors were locked. The tower doors were always locked. The whole town knew about it, and the children circulated tall tales about what might be in the tower.

"Now we do this. First I squeeze through this window, then you," came the command, and Mirka was already squeezing through the window, which led to a small ledge from which one could climb to the tower's gallery. He caught a glimpse of her panties, so he lowered his gaze. He didn't like to peek. He heard her groans and then muffled words from outside that he was coming in.

So he began to enter. First he got stuck, then she helped by pulling his hand, and finally, losing a few shirt buttons, he managed to stand on a four-inch ledge.

He looked down and almost lost his balance. The whole town was below them.

"Don't look there!" she shouted, and in an instant, he lifted his head toward the tower. The cloister was close, but not as close as she had imagined. He saw that she had noticed, because she assumed a contemplative expression.

"You'll lift me!" she declared, already rising onto her tiptoes. "Grab me tight and lift me. It's only a meter. I'll hold on, and you grab my feet. I'll pull you up."

Karol knew it wouldn't be good, but he didn't argue. Glued to the wall, clinging to something, he carefully lifted the stubborn Mirka.

"Ten more!" she shouted. "Just a little more! There!"

He was happy. He thought he was proud, proud of her.

- Watch out, now I'll pull myself up and you pull yourself up on my feet.

She was already inside. She was hanging by a belt over the tower's railing. And he hung helplessly by her bare feet. And then he realized he loved her. Undeniably, unquestionably. And he knew there was nothing left to do but say,

"Bare feet are my favorite," Karol said, and slid a little lower. "Your feet are beautiful, really. And that's exactly why I love you. For those perfectly manicured nails, for the color of your nail polish, for your tan. You know I love that," he sighed, and slid even lower. "You're sweating, honey. Your sweat isn't the best idea. Besides, you know that because you love me," he laughed. "But please, stop sweating, because I hope you realize the dangers." More laughter. "Just stop sweating. Please. I beg you, honey.

Brave, aren't you?" Fortunately, Mirka didn't hear a thing, because, being one half inside, she already knew there was a reason the doors were always locked. That's why she started sweating, which caused her to slide like a rock to her death several dozen meters below. And it's at this point that I'll stop writing.