My Kingdom for a Pedicure

We were sitting on a blanket in High Park on a beautiful August evening. I should have been listening to the play unfolding in front of me, but I couldn’t get past her bare feet. They looked like the hulls of two boats, rusted out and hoary. Who lets their feet get so nasty? She was an archaeologist like me, for crying out loud, not some Bedouin goat-herder who hadn’t seen a sandal since the last rainy season. And there they were, covered in barnacles and docked perilously close to the egg salad.
     “What are you looking at?” She asked.