With every pop I imagine a blister exploding white and pink. Thin skin unable to maintain the pressure—the built-up pressure; the final end to an ephemeral tenderness. No, I am not talking about pimples. I am referring to the large bubble wrap that my mother receives along with her photography equipment. That thick roll of plastic held apart by air, easy to destroy with sweaty feet. My brother and I are restless and ready for unwarranted revenge. We switchblade our knees and let gravity pull our femurs vertical, ending the powerful movement with the aggression of our heels. Pop!