When the strip of skin came curling off the bottom of her foot it reminded her of slicing hard cheddar (of shaving chocolate for cake) though the texture was as rubbery as beef jerky.  It was the damn boots, the ‘clonkers’, her son called them, the steel-toed wonders that protected her from nothing.  There was no known danger, none at all.  Yet, the boots were to be worn at all times.  Life -a shifting of heavy objects. 

The bright pink skin that revealed itself on the ball of her foot knew nothing, but at once hardened itself against the world.