Glass Feet

"So what are you thinking of doing," said the hand to the glass foot. It rested itself upon its own knee in all the comfort it could allow. Glass feet are like that, they enjoy comfort.

"Will you work toward tomorrow?" asked the hand.

Since the hand doesn't feed me, why would I even answer you, was the thought. "Only if there are no slivers," the answer. That would be an emphatic no.

"Well, what, how could there be either?" A bewildered hand knows no nonsense.

"What makes glass frozen in time?" the metered reply.

A silence like a deafening roar brought hands to ears. An echo beyond a roar added to the almost calamity of nuance and the hand thought for a moment. Only a mirror could be frozen in time because a window shows not a static whim, it shows movement. Yet, glass alone shows neither.

"Then, if there are no slivers, there is no pain? Your point, glass foot?"

"Is the absence of repair a rendered thing, or the opposite? What time is forthcoming to know the future?"

"What hedonistic mark swells daybreak? Not I." A knowing hand knows a different answer.

"Let go of my foot."

*

A story in dialogue where the characters are represented by a Hand and a Foot. Excerpt.

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