I remain quiet, wondering what were the words said to each other. "What does that mean? Did he ask for money?"
"No, not directly," he drinks. "He was nearly complaining about the fact that I don't ask for services from you."
I freeze at the sound of this sentence, not believing what he said. This comes from Gael with no doubt at all. "He often asks me if we did something..." I reveal.
"Why does it matter? Is he scared that you might be hiding money under your clothes?" he does not even think about jealousy first, knowing his priorities. "No...I think that maybe something is wrong with me, I don't know."
"Why would something be wrong with you?" he frowns at me, not getting it. "I don't know, probably because, to him, if you don't ask for anything, that means I'm not good enough, or that I don't attract men enough."
His eyes do not blink anymore, staying where they are, on me. "Has he said that to you, or you're the one believing so?"
"I'm the one believing so..." I barely say it out loud, feeling like he found my answer dumb. "Just because a man doesn't show his sexual desire for you doesn't mean you're not enough in any way, you know."
I nod, no words coming out of my mouth. "Most of the guys in here have no brain, sweetheart. They turn into animals as soon as a woman shows some skin, they only focus on the areas that you want to cover the most and hope that they are within sight, they treat woman like some meat, and they do not care whether you're comfortable with them or not because they're going to touch you anyway," he summarizes in the most realistic manner. "So do not base your beauty, worth, or anything else on what a man does towards you or doesn't do. You're beautiful, and you're an amazing woman that any good man would want to marry, and you shouldn't doubt that, alright?"
I give him the answer he wants to get, and I avert my eyes from his brown ones. This always means so much more when I hear that from him.
Without adding any more to this, he rubs his hands together and turns his head towards the bag he brought here, and he grabs it. He parts the top to look inside, my heart beating harder as if I was expecting something, but he takes some bandage out, some adulterated alcohol, and some ointment cream as well.
I do not talk but suspect him to know about my feet, and he stands up, he comes towards me and sits down, getting us way closer than usual. "Can I?" he leans forth to touch my ankle. "I...I cannot wear bandages or band-aids..."
"Why?" he straightens his back to get in a proper position, wondering why I would refuse to be treated. "Gael said it doesn't look—"
"Okay," he does not care about listening to the rest of my sentence but goes up, kneels down in front of me, and cups my ankle in one of the most gentle manners. So I let him do it, and I will worry about the consequences later on.
I flinch and groan as soon as he pulls my left shoe down, getting his eyes to dart up to mine. "I'm sorry. Do you want to do it?"
A 'yes' leaves my mouth, fearing that he might hurt me even more by accident. I take my high heels off and put them next to me, then his warm skin gets into contact with mine, his long fingers holding my strained calf. Just moving my feet nearly hurts as much as if a car had run over them.
"Jeez..." he carefully holds it with his other hand to take hold of the alcohol and some cotton. "How can you still walk with those feet...?" he gazes up at me, and I shrug, having no other answer to give. "Has he seen them?"
