“It’s not fresh,” she said. “But then again… neither are my feet.”
He hasn’t eaten in nearly two days.
And when he finally sees his breakfast—it’s not fresh. It’s not hot. It’s a cold, wilted croissant pulled from her refrigerator, left out on the glass tabletop just long enough to reach room temperature. And then… her feet touched it.
Now it’s warming. Not from an oven. From her soles.
She paces slowly around the table, barefoot and careless, her heels dragging across the surface. He watches from below, lying on his back like the object he’s become, eyes locked upward through the thick pane of glass.
Above him: her feet. Above that: the stale croissant. And somewhere between the two—his appetite and his shame.
She says nothing at first. Just steps directly onto the pastry, pressing it with the ball of her foot. Slowly. With weight. With heat. The croissant flattens, its soft center resisting, then giving way. A smudge of old yolk leaks out. Crumbs fracture.
He watches all of it. Watches as her heel, once gray and dry from a day out, begins to glisten. Watches as the flakes of egg and pastry cling to her arch. Watches as the sweat from her sole begins to dampen the already-soggy crust.
It’s disgusting. It’s beautiful. It’s his.
She finally speaks. “You were looking forward to this, weren’t you?”
He nods. Carefully. Hungrily.
“It’s not fresh,” she says. “But then again… neither are my feet.”
She grinds the croissant in slow circles under her arch. Cheese streaks across the glass like greasepaint. The once-firm crust splits and caves. Her foot sinks in. He can’t smell it from where he lies—but he imagines it. What it must feel like—those warm, slightly damp soles pressing into his only meal.
Then she lifts her foot and looks down at him with mock curiosity. “Tell me what you see.”
His voice is small. “Your feet are getting cleaner.”
“Mmm.”
“And?”
“My breakfast is absorbing it all.”
She smiles and lowers her foot again. Presses deeper this time. The heel lands in the center and twists like a corkscrew.
“Check for me.”
He lifts his head slightly, straining to inspect the sole through the glass.
Bits of yolk are gone. The darkened edge of her heel looks lighter now. There’s a slick shine where there used to be grime.
“Cleaner, Mistress. But not fully.”
“And the croissant?”
He hesitates. “It’s... glistening.”
“From what?”
He exhales. “From you.”
She places her other foot beside the first. Presses with both. His breakfast collapses completely now—flat and wet and hot with her skin.
She steps off and lowers herself, crouching so her face aligns with his—only the glass between them.
“I left it in the fridge for three days,” she says softly. “It had nothing left to give you.”
“Until I stepped in.”
He nods.
“So now you’ll eat it,” she continues. “But only once I’m sure it’s mine.”
She smears her heel through the last of it. Slowly. Ritualistically. Watching him as her footprints replace any trace of its origin.
“This isn’t food,” she whispers. “It’s a memory of who you used to be… before hunger made you honest.”