He walks to the other side of the room where two bare feet wait by the sofa. The toes move slightly as he approaches, but he hasn't recognized the ankles yet. He knows bare feet can be friendly or the worst enemies a quiet man can have. If the toenails are long and dirty, there is no chance. If they are trimmed and healthy, something will happen. He stands in front of the sofa and looks down at the waiting feet. The right toe curls a bit, then gets stiff in attention. The left toes suddenly point upward, then relax. If the room wasn't so dark, he could find out who the feet belong to. They don't look like a man's and might be a woman's, though the nails are not painted. He can't see above the ankles as if a pair of pants or long skirt are hiding the legs. He can't make out any sitting figure and wonders if it was difficult to get here barefoot, or if there are shoes hiding somewhere under the sofa. Did these feet think on their own and part ways with their owner? He fights the urge to bend down and kiss each ankle.