The crack makes me jump, the sharp, snap sound of plastic pressed too far, finally splitting, shards splintering a firework of spiderweb lines scrabbling to saftey from the fresh edge still clutched in your hand. Then you look at me, like I’ve gone mad.
“My feet know more about music then you do!” he boasted one day at lunch. “My feet know good music when they hear it. They have taste!” Sharma, who had know Majik for thirteen years, ignored her best friend and continued chewing her sandwich. “They tingle!” Majik said. “When the music is good I get this tingle in my toes that tells me the music is good!” Sharma swallowed and took another bite. Majik was always talking about tingly toes. Personally, she thought there was a good chance it was just athlete’s foot or some other skin condition that had gone untreated for too long. “I could be a music agent.” said Majik. “I’d never pick a bad band because I would always be able to tell who was really good.” Brushing off her hands, Sharma swallowed the last of her sandwich. “You liked Milli Vanilli.” she reminded him. For VisDare 25: Precarious It sort of fits.