Broken Toes

Broken Toes

“Has a car ever run over your foot?”

“Yes,” I said. “Terrible. Very, very painful.”

“Have you ever allowed a car to run over your foot?” he asked.

“Voluntarily? Wilfull? No,” I said. “Have you?”

Yes,” he said. “Many times. I’ve come to enjoy it.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Knowing what it’s like to have a car run over you foot, you wouldn’t do it again?”

“No,” I said.

“Why not?”

I looked at him solemnly.

“Does this question really need answering?” I asked.

“What’s the matter? You too much of a smarty pants to answer? You too good to answer?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “Just seems to me nothing I say will make any difference to a fella that lets cars run over his feet.”

“What are you saying? I’m stupid?”

“Well, I can’t say I understand it.”

“Other people let cars run over their feet too,” he said. “I’m not the only one.”

“Does that somehow make it feel better?”

“Of course,” he said.

I thought about that.

I said I was sorry.

He asked, “Sorry for what?”

“Maybe I should have given you an explanation why I won’t allow a car to run over my foot again.”

“Why would you explain it now?”

“Cause as much as I couldn’t imagine you might explain it in a way that makes sense…….well, now I think I understand.”

“Good. So you’re ready to let a car run over your foot again?” he asked.

“No, but thank you,” I said. “I think I’ll still pass.”

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