She painted her toenails every day, different shades and hues to match her mood, outfit, or the weather. Eventually, she started painting them to match her boyfriends. When she dated that punk guy, her nails were colored a deep, dusky grey. She started to hook up with the florist, and her toenails took on the vibrant color of petunias in the spring. As I watched the cheerful fuchsia change to a wilted brown, I made my shoulder readily available for tears. Later on, the two of us started dating. I constantly tried to catch a glimpse of those beautiful, mysterious nails. She wore closed toe shoes whenever we went out and socks whenever we stayed at home. One night, as she was sleeping, I carefully slipped off a sock. Her toenails were bare.