an introduction

Why would anyone do such a thing?

Sitting at gate B2, I stuck my foot out to admire the disgusting job I'd done of polishing the night before. Uneven edges, colored cuticles. I really shouldn't try to multitask.

The 15-years-younger Cesar Millan seated to my right leaned in for a peek, too. "Looks good to me," he said.

Startled, I pretended I was someone else. "You don't think the big toe looks, I don't know ... darker than the others?" I angled my foot to see a side perspective.

"Not at all." he smelled like the cologne every woman should buy for her boyfriend for Christmas and his birthday and Arbor Day if that's what it takes. "They all look the same."

"Oh!" I said as if we hadn't been talking about my foot at all. "Not the polish ... I mean the actual toe."

Our eyes met for a moment before his moved back to my foot. He squinted and looked closer. So did the business class gentleman across from us who didn't notice me noticing his tendency to eavesdrop.

"I don't see it," said Cesar. "Why should it be any different?"

I smiled a coy smile, and this time it was my turn to break eye contact. We were both examining the toe but for different reasons.

Luckily, Delta flight 829 interrupted the conversation to announce that it was loading passengers who need extra time at gate B4.

"Ok," I said, reluctant to let more silence pass. "It was a beer bottle." I finished my sentence as if it should have been all the explanation anyone needed.

"What was a beer bottle?" the business man would have asked had he been an accepted part of the conversation.

I looked at my foot again and blew a stray lock of hair out of my face. "It was a beer bottle that almost severed it a while back."

The business man and Cesar suddenly sat straight up. "You're kidding," one of them said.

Yes, I was. "Nope," I said. "It was Budweiser. I was out with some friends, talking to this French guy at the bar. Apparently he couldn't hold on to the bottle any longer, and dropped it on my foot."

My captive audience remained captive, so I continued being hazy on the details. "The next thing I remember, the paramedics showed up, wrapped my foot in about 20 pounds of gauze, and carted me off to the ER. Surgery and a little physical therapy later, here I am."

My foot was now under the most intense scrutiny it had been under since March of 1985, when I'd stepped on a stray tack the school parking lot/playground. The straps of my sandals crisscrossed over my toes, so I used that observation to close my story.

"...so you can't really see the scar." I pointed my toes and swiveled my foot again. Despite the covering, I could tell he saw it. For crying out loud, I could see it.

"God," he said. "That's terrible." Our eyes met again, and I raised my eyebrows and my shoulders ... what can you do?

"Eric," he said, offering his hand.

"Melanie." I took it.

"Where are you headed?"