The above is using a poll evocatively rather than instrumentally. I care about the chirality of the foot and it’s instantiation in utterance, not your nor anyone else’s choice or vote on the matter.
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There is something compact about the exchange. Something timeless and universal. Something uncannily, worryingly familiar.
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Years ago I dropped a glass on the floor and it shattered. Shards and splinters sprang out in every direction, and my feet and ankles were stuck with a few. I pulled out as many as I could find, cleaned up the blood, and swept the floor.
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But I missed one glass shard, embedded in the calloused ball of one of my feet. Time wore on, and the skin gradually grew out around the glass, enveloping it, and as I walked on the foot the glass was pushed in deeper.
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Once or twice a year, I can feel the shard as a dull pressure within the layers of calloused skin. Something shifts within the flesh and the glass is squeezed differently, threatening to cut me from within.
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This period of discomfort lasts for about a week. The first time it happened, about six months after the shattering of the glass, I called the doctor about it.
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“There’s something poking me from inside my foot. I can feel it when I walk,” I said. “Which foot?” said the doctor. “Left foot,” I said. “Come see me in the next couple of days,” said the doctor. I did, but the pressure had gone by then. Nothing came of it.
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End of conversation
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This is why I've always said: I really need a scalpel as a household tool
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