“Have your toes always been like that?” I asked.

“Like what?”

“Like that.” I motioned with my head, confused by the possibility that she really might not know what I meant. She looked at me, down at her feet, back at me. I was treading water, resting my arms on the pool edge, my legs kicking; my eyes watched her feet dangling from the lounge chair, where she’d been reading until I’d disrupted her.

“Webbed there, between the two small toes.”

“Webbed?”

“What do you mean ‘webbed, question mark’? Yes, webbed.” I pushed with my arms and kicked my legs, and sat on the edge where my arms had been. I reached out and grabbed her foot, “I mean, they aren’t amphibian or anything, but that’s webbed, babe.”

“Gee, thanks. ‘Not amphibian’?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I don’t.” She grabbed her foot and pulled it into her. “What are you talking about?”

“What do you mean, what am I talking about? That.” I pulled her foot back and spread her two smallest toes apart. “That webbing. I’m not saying it’s gross or anything, but that ain’t normal.”

“It ain’t?” she asked, laughing at the way I talk. “Your toes aren’t like that? I never even noticed before. I guess I just figured that’s how everyone’s were.”

I swung my legs up and out of the water and presented her with my foot as evidence.

“Well. Why’d you even point it out?” she asked, looking only barely convinced after inspecting mine. “Especially if it ‘ain’t even gross or anything.’” She made air quotes with both hands and laughed at me some more.

“I don’t know, I’d just never noticed before.” And I was surprised I hadn’t ever noticed before. I was surprised no one else had ever noticed before; she’d never thought anything of it.

I pushed off into the water and swam to the other end of the pool, wondering if her webbed toes helped her swim faster at all.