this always happens

As soon as I leave the nail salon I begin to smell bubble gum. Then I begin to wonder where the smell is coming from and what on earth in my life smells like bubble gum. Then I remember the pink lotion and the rubbing and the pseudo leg massage from the woman who shaved the dead skin off of my feet to within an inch of my feet’s life. And then I feel a little silly for all the obsession over the possibilities of a bubble gum scented life.

My toenails are covered with OPI’s Double Decker Red. Because I miss London, that’s why. I hedged toward pink, toward a last summer foot fling, but no, I heard London Calling. And so, now when I see my feet, dangling from a chair, propped up on an ottoman, or just walking in flip flops, I’ll be transported back to my favorite bit of earth. And it’s the closest I’ll get for some time even though it seems that everyone else I know is kissing that town.

I learned 3 weeks ago that a long lost friend was just there, studying. PK, my bestest friend, is off to the south of France today for 10 days and the people I’m house sitting for are jaunting around London and Greece while I take licks from their dog. While it’s love, it’s not London love. And then Kristin went sauntering off for 10 days as well. I have my toes at least.

My toes, even though in real life they’re just red, I like to pretend this color has actually touched a double decker bus, maybe one that was headed down Kensington High Street, dropping off passengers at Marks and Sparks for bargain shopping with style, the British version.

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