Chapter 3: Tease and Denial
The scent of leather polish still hung in the hall closet, a ghost of Tom’s labor from the night before. Lia surveyed the top shelf, where her black Pradas sat like polished beetles, gleaming under the closet light. Perfect. She smiled to herself, running a finger along the smooth toe box. He’d done a thorough job.
Her phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. A text from Coco, a fellow painter from her studio with a laugh like shattering glass and a mischief that rivaled her own. Running late. Wine?
Already chilling, Lia typed back. Hurry. I have a show for you.
She arranged the platter of cheeses and grapes, her movements economical. The city beyond the windows was a jewel-box of twilight, the last amber streaks of sunset giving way to a deep cobalt. She’d changed into soft, charcoal leggings and an oversized cream sweater, the collar slipping off one shoulder. Her feet were bare, the plum polish a dark accent against the pale rug.
The doorbell chimed. Tom, who had been silently organizing a stack of art books on a low shelf, froze like a deer.
“Get that, would you?” Lia called, not looking up from the platter.
She heard the door open, the gust of hall air, Coco’s bright, “Hey, stranger!” followed by a more subdued, “Oh, hi, Tom.”
Coco swept in, a whirlwind of faux leopard print and cherry-red lipstick. She dropped her tote bag and enveloped Lia in a cloud of vanilla perfume. “God, what a day. The new instructor is a literal fascist about gesso. I need that wine.”
“Coming up.” Lia took two glasses from the cupboard. “Tom, pour for us, please?”
He moved to the kitchen island, his movements careful, as if the air itself was fragile. He uncorked the Sauvignon Blanc, the sound loud in the quiet apartment. Lia watched his hands, the precise tilt of the bottle. He filled both glasses without spilling a drop.
“So,” Coco said, hopping onto a stool and accepting her glass. She kicked off her own shoes—a pair of chunky-heeled boots—and wiggled her toes in striped socks. “What’s the show?”
Lia took a slow sip, her eyes on Tom, who was staring fixedly at the wine bottle. “Tom has developed a new appreciation. For feet.”
Coco’s eyebrows arched. She followed Lia’s gaze to Tom’s rigid posture. A slow, understanding grin spread across her face. “No.”
“Yes.”
“Interesting.” Coco drew the word out, languid and full of delight. She swiveled on her stool to face Tom directly. “That explains the intense polishing session I walked in on last week. You were doing her sneakers, right? With a brush.”
Tom’s ears flushed crimson. He said nothing.
“He’s shy about it,” Lia said, her tone conspiratorial. She slid off her own stool and padded to the large cream rug in the living area. She sank down, stretching her legs out, leaning back on her elbows. The sweater draped around her. “But he’s a very dedicated admirer. Aren’t you, Tom?”
He managed a tight, almost imperceptible nod.
Coco joined Lia on the rug, mirroring her pose, their heads close together like girls at a sleepover. Four feet now pointed towards Tom, who remained standing, a sentinel of awkwardness.
“He likes the soles best,” Lia murmured, as if sharing a secret. “Watch.”
Lia flexed her right foot, arching it high. She rotated it slowly, letting the soft light play over the contours. Then she brought her big toe to her mouth and gave it a brief, thoughtful kiss, her eyes locked on Tom. He inhaled sharply.
Coco giggled, a low, infectious sound. “Okay, I see it. The fixation is… specific.” She peeled off her striped socks, revealing feet with chipped blue polish. She wasn’t as meticulous as Lia, but her feet were slender, with high arches. She planted them flat on the rug and then curled her toes, digging them into the plush pile. “Do they have to be pretty? Or is it, like, a universal thing?”
“For him? They have to be mine,” Lia said. Her voice had dropped, taking on a possessive, metallic edge. “But he looks. He can’t help it. He’s looking at yours right now.”
Tom’s gaze, which had been darting between them, snapped to the floor. A vein pulsed in his temple.
“Poor thing,” Coco said, not sounding sorry at all. She extended a foot, tracing a meaningless pattern in the air a few feet from him. “It must be torture. All these feet just… out. Being feet. So rude of us.”
Lia laughed, a light, sparkling sound. “It’s terrible. We should be more considerate.” She rolled onto her stomach, propping her chin in her hands. Her feet swayed in the air behind her. “Tom, come sit. You’re looming.”
He approached like a man navigating a minefield, lowering himself to the very edge of the rug, a good three feet from them.
“Closer,” Lia commanded, her voice sweet. “We won’t bite. Well, I might.”
He inched forward. The scent of them—Lia’s jasmine lotion, Coco’s vanilla, the faint, clean sweat from their bare skin—washed over him.
“So,” Coco said, taking a large gulp of wine. “Rate them. Mine versus hers. Be honest.”
Tom’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. He looked utterly eviscerated.
“Go on,” Lia purred. “Artistic critique. You’re allowed to look. You’re encouraged to look.”
His eyes, glazed and helpless, traveled from Coco’s chipped blue toes to Lia’s pristine plum ones. He was trembling, just slightly. “I… I can’t…”
“You can,” Lia insisted, her voice hardening. “Coco asked you a question.”
He swallowed, his throat clicking. “Lia’s are… perfect.” The words were ripped from him.
Coco fake-pouted. “Ouch. But fair.” She nudged Lia with her elbow. “He’s got a type. High arches. That aesthetic.” She suddenly swung her foot forward and placed her sole directly, firmly, against Tom’s thigh.
He jerked as if electrocuted.
“See?” Coco said, her voice all false innocence. “Just a foot. Skin and bones. But the context. It’s everything, right?” She pressed down, not hard, but with undeniable presence. “The power is wild. I totally get the appeal now, Lia.”
Lia watched, her green eyes alight with pure, unadulterated pleasure. This was better than she’d imagined. A shared complicity. She uncrossed her ankles and placed both of her soles against his other thigh, her touch lighter, a whisper compared to Coco’s deliberate press.
Tom made a small, choked sound in the back of his throat. He was rigid, his hands fisted on his knees, staring at the four feet now claiming him. The contrast was a vivid torture: Coco’s bold, unfamiliar pressure and Lia’s teasing, familiar nearness.
They held him there for a long, silent minute, the only sound the distant hum of the city. Then, as if on a synchronized cue, they both pulled away.
“Wine’s getting warm,” Lia said breezily, rolling back onto her elbows as if nothing had happened.
Coco retrieved her glass. “So, tell me about the gallery proposal. Did you send it?”
The conversation pivoted, normal, light, full of studio gossip and artistic jargon. Tom sat amidst it, stranded on the shore of their casual cruelty. He didn’t move. He couldn’t. The imprint of their soles on his thighs felt branded into his skin, a phantom pressure that screamed of everything denied.
Lia watched him from the corner of her eye as she laughed at Coco’s story. She saw the desperate ache in his posture, the way his own body had become a prison of want. She took a slow sip of wine, the cool liquid a contrast to the warm, spreading satisfaction in her chest.
The show, she thought, was an even bigger success than she’d planned. And the best part? The curtain was nowhere near ready to fall.