Distance Learning

“It’s the distance between the tip of his big toe and back of his heel, measured diagonally,” said Lacey, as if she should know.

We shoved trolleys in front of us as we walked through the supermarket. I narrowed my eyes. “Are you sure that’s it?”

Lacey nodded cheerfully.

The length of a man’s penis, just in case there should be any doubt.

“I don’t know,” I said, “I always heard it was the distance between the tip of his thumb and tip of his index finger.”

Lacey shook her head, animated, adamant. “It’s the foot, I’m telling you.”

“You been doing some research or something?”

“Or something,” she tossed a bag of chips into the trolley.

“And what? They all had foot-long penises?”

“Yup,” she said cheerfully, reaching for a box of crackers.

#

“No,” said Adam, “it’s definitely the toe thing.” He was taking his socks off and putting his big feet up on my couch, wiggling that oversized big toe. Waving it at me like he was waving goodbye, or was he trying to make it beckon? Something about his efforts reminded me of that thing you do when you try to pat your head and rub your stomach at the same time.

“That toe thing needs trimming,” I said, looking at the thick, ragged nail.

“Nah, this is good for self-defence, isn’t it?”

“If you’re barefoot and like to kick.”

“Kicking,” he crossed his ankles on that nice clean couch, “that sounds like it involves moving.”

Mum bought me that couch. When I first moved out of home. It’s a kind of creamy colour, with flowers in shades of apricot and sunset. There’s a kind-of seventies feel about it, and I know she got it second hand. But it’s tasteful. I like it. It really doesn’t need those dirty footprints on it.

“How do you get so dirty anyway, inside your shoes?” I made myself a little spot next to him, curled my knees up to my chin. Barefoot as well, and I couldn’t help but notice our two sets of feet, one of them dwarfing the other.

“Must be a good eight or nine inches there,” Adam said casually, wiggling the toes. He wanted to get into my pants.

“You wish there was,” I said, not sure if I wanted him in there or not.

#

Now Adam, he’s a good sort. I feel guilty about not feeling more. It was Lacey who introduced us. Just a couple of months ago. And it was kinda surprising because I grew up with Lacey, we’d been friends since we were about eleven of twelve. I thought I pretty much knew everybody she knew. But here we were, out at this beach party, everybody wicked drunk, and she was dragging Adam over and presenting him to me like a present. Or was it a trophy?

I remember being drunk enough at the time to ask him, “so, did you and Lacey fuck?”

“No,” he said, “not Lacey.” As if the statement held some profundity.

And then we walked along the sand, looking back at each other’s footprints, at the incoming tide as it, lick by lick, ate at them, dissolving them away. He started talking about his family, and about how his brother was a fragile thing, a twig, and how he wanted to toughen him up but couldn’t figure out how to do it without breaking him; and about his sister who was so loud – as twiggy as the brother to be sure, but wiry and wild, with oversized glasses that made her look like a frog. His dad who fancied himself such a joker and who manifestly loved the sister best. Or his mum, who was so laid back, who had this way of just swishing her hand to blat away any concerns, any worries: “it’ll all just sort itself out” as she’d like to say.

Inside half an hour I felt like I knew him.

“I’d like to call you,” he said, avoiding my eyes.

“Okay.” I wrote my number on his hand. He keyed it into his phone on the spot and had to ask me twice what a couple of the numbers were. We both stumbled around laughing for a good five minutes after that.

#

“I could paint them,” I said of his toenails.

He tilted his head, “What colour?”

“Pink.”

“I’ll allow red.”

“Blood or fire engine?”

“You choose.”

I told myself that I would, though I already kind of knew I wasn’t going to. I hesitated before I asked him, “How’s it going for you this week? Moneywise, I mean?”

“Head above water. Mind if I grab a beer?” He jerked his thumb at the fridge.

“About that. You’re… you’re over a lot and… the power bill…”

“You need help with?”

“Yeah… I mean… you’re over a lot, using power, and…”

“Beanie, of course,” – it doesn’t matter why he calls me Beanie, I don’t even know if he knows, “We always help each other out. I half-live here, right?”

The problem. This kind of stasis. This are-we-or-aren’t-we? And maybe it would help if I just tried that penis out for size, and then for some reason we’d just know whether we were or were not.

Adam said, “Hey, not only will I help with the power bill, but get dressed up, I’ll take you out to dinner.”

#

We couldn’t afford dinner. And the place was nice. It had scented candles, and my roasted half chicken came all rubbed in colourful herbs and citrus peels. There were candied Brussel sprouts sitting in a little circle around it.

Adam tried to stack them.

“What do you see in a girl like me?” I said, leading him.

“My future,” he said.

“So cheesy.”

“Not if I mean it.”

I felt that gravity condensing all around it. “How would you know?”

“I wouldn’t. It’s just a feeling. It’s just… you.”

#

We went home that night high on Champagne. I kicked my shoes off and straddled him, right there on the balcony, snagging my leg around his like some actress in the movies. It was the Champagne on his lips that made them taste sweet and fizzy. Didn’t matter. This felt like the point of no return. So I tried out that penis, and as it turned out, it was quite to my liking. Not that I'm saying it was a foot long or anything…

 

Picture credit/discredit: author's own work