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Mr Fishtz.

Mr Fishtz sits to the left of a woman known as Theresa, but he does not know that. He is beyond personal criticism - smart black shirt open under an expensive black suit, dividing its crisply ironed shape in perfect symmetry.

They sit near each other on the same park bench within plain view of the pigeons, that watch them intently, a squirrel, runs down a tree and sits to the left of Mr. Fishtz, staring at him. Mr Fishtz is attempting to demonstrate to himself one of the many puzzles of life that Mr. Fishtz has only recently shown any inclination towards his own existence. The woman sitting next to him is a stranger to him, yet he feels comfortable in her presence. Previously, she had hidden in obscurity, pretending to be someone else, somewhere else and her name had been Alison. But, he does not know that.

Mr Fishtz is fascinated by patterns of all kinds. In nature, in abstract theory, in art, in textures, in fabrics. The patterns, that exists in the eyes of mysterious women. Also, Silence is a favourite indulgence of his. Silence is the truth of existence. He will often stare at the foam dissolving in a latte, forming specific universes, sometimes life. The sound of screaming will often stop him in his tracks as he tries to listen to the tone, to see if the scream is genuine or not.

While these concepts hold a genuine fascination for him, there is one that dominates him, and has grown in its compulsion throughout the years. His interest here is purely personal. It seems inferior compared to his other pursuits, but remains his secret passion.

He will scan the World Wide Web for images, for articles, for groups that share his secret. There is an inner longing in him that sometimes finds expression, if he meets a woman that has what he needs. His secret passion is for feet and toes. He adores and worships them, the feet and toes of beautiful women, wonderful girls. He admires, the shape, the form, the structure, the skin, the arch, and the size.

The bewildering variety of feet and toes dazzles him. So many glorious feet, so many beautiful wiggling toes. His favourite season is summer, when he can watch sandaled feet for hours, as he sits on park benches. Theresa, one day had sat next to him, eating a packed lunch and feeding the birds and a squirrel. Mr Fishzt glanced down at her feet and for the first time in his foot fetish life, saw to his absolute joy. A pair of delectable perfect feet and toes, belonging to a very attractive and sensual woman. Her feet and toes had to be his. Mr Fishtz is a very private and shy man and deciding to make the effort and talk to a stranger was a hard thing for him to do. The woman next to him sits attentively, staring at the view of the park, eating her food slowly, a tartan skirt splayed slightly, its pleats resting gently on each other, like inflated air pockets forming inside a parachute as it touches water. Mr Fishtz deliberates on this image awhile, not too long, of course - long enough to glimpse dark folds resting on each other, patterned light just visible through the surface.

'Excuse me, I am terribly sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if you realise that the statue over there was created only recently as part of an art installation by NAKE REZO?'

'No, sir. I did not know that, is it a shape?' she whispers.

'Yes, very good. I am a great admirer of his work. In essence it's all very simple. Its all about shape and liquid and desire, do you know of his work?'

He takes out from his thin leather briefcase an A4 book. He opens it and shows her each page, images and designs, photographs and words by the artist known as NAKE REZO. Finally when he has finished, he looks at her and smiles. ‘Oh excuse me, I am terribly rude, my name is Mr. Fishtz, but you can call me Fishtz.’

She has observed everything in silence. She smiles back at him. ‘Hello, my name is Theresa.’ They shake hands and Mr. Fishtz, continues. As he speaks he regularly and subtly glances at her feet and toes.

'' Yes, the artist is weird and disturbing, even scatological, very influenced by shapes, liquids, starkness of existence and he has a new exhibition opening this week called The 13 issues, perhaps you would like to go? “

Mr Fishtz, surprises himself by being so forward, but each time he glances at her feet and toes, looks at her eyes and hears a her voice. Something strange and wonderful happens to his mind.

At this moment a striped fly lands on the hem of Theresa's skirt as it opens out slightly over the edge of the bench. Should he say anything? Mr. Fishtz thinks of folding wings. As a child he was terrified of these small hovering creatures whose sudden shifts of direction you could not anticipate. Should he say something? She looks at him, unblinking, innocent and shy.

'Yes, I think I would like that.'

Mr. Fishtz sees the fly crawl along her thigh and suddenly there are more flies around them both. She scratches the skin under the pleats of her skirt. She ignores the flies, Mr. Fishtz swats at them, cursing.

'Perhaps we should move?' He asks.’ maybe we could go for a coffee?”

Mr. Fishtz sees a complete image, of which every moment is magical and she is in his arms whispering and he his touching her hair and gazing at her feet as they lie together on a large comfortable sofa.

'Now it's time to massage you wonderful feet my love.' Mr.Fishtz says out loud.

'Feet?' Theresa questions. Mr Fishtz, looks surprised, embarrassed and shakes his head in apology. “Sorry, I am just thinking out loud about the exhibition.”

Theresa rests her hands on her knees, holding one knee between thumb and index finger. Mr Fishtz does the same but he holds the opposite side with the same fingers of his other hand.

She watches him and he looks at her. Nothing is said, they are enjoying the silence. Then she looks down at her sandaled feet. She then takes her feet out of the sandals and lifts them up to look at them, she wiggles her toes.

'I hope you don’t mind' she says, stretching her legs out to the air and turning her feet in circular motions like a delicate insect. At the same time, he has a strange feeling, as if indeed she was offering something incredibly precious over to him. He watches her, he watches her feet, he admires her legs and thighs and wondered if this was what love feels like.

She does not say anything. He can see she is already enjoying the cool breeze on her bare feet and legs. Almost obsessively, she continues to flex her feet and toes, sometimes producing all the 3's, then all the 5's, and eventually all the toes, stretched out, flexed, stretched and a delight to his eyes.

'Can you see a pattern?' she says eventually. He has noticed that she has realized if she concentrates her little toes, then moves on to her bigger toes, she gets into a cyclical sequence.

'Yes,' he almost shouts in her excitement. At this moment, he screams and lifts up her skirt, revealing a naked thigh as the striped fly zooms out.

'Yes, yes, ' he says, recovering quickly and barely noticing how shocked Theresa had momentarily looked. 'Numbers 1, 2, and 3 turn up three times as often as 4, and 5, don't they?'

'Fantastic,' she says, allowing herself a rather demonstrative expression. 'Well done, ' she enthuses again.

Mr. Fishtz sits still - slowly, almost nonchalantly, flipping over his actions in his mind. Why did she not run away? Why did she not slap him? Why is she still sitting with me? 'There is more, you know,' he says. 'There are many variations on the shape of your feet and toes, with more complex structure and form, many more.'

How long have they been at this? The sun has gone down considerably. It will be dark soon. There isn't another person in sight, not even a tramp. Then two schoolgirls whiz by on a bicycle, one girl riding pillion on the tiny hubs of the back axle.

Mr. Fishtz stares at the backs of the girl's knees, her pristine white slouch socks, her browned thighs. My Theresa is not like that, he thinks. Then the mild-mannered, smartly dressed Mr Fishtz hears the impatient sound of Theresa flipping the hem of her skirt. He turns towards her.

There is only her skirt. Her blouse flutters in the evening breeze a few feet away, as do her snow-white knickers and socks. He resists the urge to pick them up. Then he hears her voice coming, he thinks, from behind him.

‘Fishtz, Fishtz’ He stands up.

'Theresa, where are you?'

'Here, Mr. Fishtz, here.'

'Where?'

'On the bench.'

On the bench, but, there is only her skirt, neatly folded, in the shape of a hexagon, a perfect, kaleidoscopic tartan hexagon.

'Theresa, stop playing games. You're very clever but this is enough.'

'But I am here, in the skirt.'

He is surely going mad. But her breathy, almost asthmatic voice is coming from the very centre of her skirt. He touches it and realizes it has the texture of dry toast.

'Unfold me, Fishtz. Be with me, be with me and my feet, you like m y feet don’t you?'

'I do love your feet Theresa and I love you, you are perfect for me.'

He picks the skirt up and starts to fold and unfold, it is hard, as if starched, almost like cardboard. But the sides are impossible to tell apart. He flexes the shape; sweat beading his brow, for nearly an hour. Occasionally he sees a part of her face appear on one of the triangular sections. Then it disappears, only to appear again on another triangle, in an inverted position.

All the time, she seems to be cooing encouragement, wooing him. She is saying that she is happy where she is. But he has to go on unfolding; he has to be with her.

Sometimes the whole shape opens up into a giant aperture and he sees her in the centre, as if she is stuck in a black hole. Then he bends and twists again, and any hint of her disappears.

At some stage, he notices a pressure on him, a force of some kind. He looks straight down and almost laughs. His shirttail is caught, being pulled towards the centre.

'Come, Mr Fishtz, it is late. You have worked hard enough.' He sees her feet and toes, gripping and pulling on the shirttail.

It is time, he is tired, and he gives himself up. The pressure is too much.

On the bench is a crisp, fluttering tartan skirt, lit only by a nearby street lamp, which is suddenly lifted up by a gust of wind, and gives out an echoing sigh. The pile of clothes, a suit, a shirt, and some girls clothing, as well a pair of sandals and a pair of mens shoes lie scattered, gently fluttering in the breeze.
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