my toes were once my friends

I saw them every day, or close to it. Clipping and knowing exactly when I'd gone too far, or when they were getting in need. I knew every inch of them.

There were the two big guys, one a tough bruiser and one a jovial party animal. The two little guys, one a quick-witted and slightly annoying sort, and the other a homely and quietly humorous runt who seemed to live to serve and be picked on.

There were the other six, fairly similar but each with his own character. One liked reading fiction, another was a history buff. One had been an all-star track guy in school, another was recovering from some sort of chemical addiction (we weren't sure exactly what, I think it was heroin but it may have been only prescription meds). Then there was the guy that liked to think of himself as a real ladies' man, but I never saw him with any better-than-average-looking women. The other one was probably gay, but didn't seem to have much of a need for a relationship. We could go on and on like this.

And now all I have are two feet full of strangers. Aging strangers. Almost alien in their color and consistency, today toughened and yellowed, with sick white patches of dry skin is flaking off. I probably couldn't pick out my feet from a lineup, as long as the other feet belonged to middle-aged Caucasian men (and maybe larger women).

When I clip my nails now it's like shaving off the excess dead skin from an increasingly- protruding cyst. I'm so lucky that I'm no longer young and sensitive enough to find it repulsive. But then again I only do it every two weeks or so.

Did I say they'd once been my friends? Maybe just co-workers or acquaintances, not a serious emotional connection. It's not that I miss them....not as much as I hate these foreign strangers that have taken their place.