My first thought was that this blurry woman represented the missing member of my family -- a wife. Obviously I'm perfectly happy with my children. But my love life, well, that's a different story altogether.
Since I couldn't make out any details of this woman, I initially thought I hadn't met her yet. She was a placeholder for someone I would meet in the future. Seems logical enough.
Then I considered it more closely. Maybe she represents someone I already know. Someone I had never considered in that way before. Or someone who I had met but the timing just wasn't right. Someone who I subconsciously considered to be a good mother figure, since my kids were apparently comfortable with her being there, and us showing affection to each other.
Another possibility arose -- a more sobering one. She represents my decisive split. As though I chose my kids over a satisfying love life. I would not have another love until I felt the kids were ready to accept the fact that their mom and I would never get back together. Like I'm putting up a shield to this mystery woman because I feel as though it would hurt my kids.
But why the toes then? Why can I see the toes with such clarity? And why are the only sounds and scents I detect from the ocean? I can see this woman's silhouette but not hear her speak, smell her hair, or even feel her touch (other than her pinky).
Then it dawned on me. I find almost every part of an attractive woman arousing. Except the toes. That's the one body part which does absolutely nothing for me. The only possible reason my subconscious would lock in on the toes would be to prevent all the other traits of this woman from distracting me.
This woman is my true love.
The woman who will lie next to me, reading in bed after a long day, whose toes I will glance at time and again just because I'm infatuated with her. The woman whose strapped shoes I will help her slide on after our salsa dancing lessons. The woman who I feel myself rambling on to about my dreams, my fears, my doubts, my goals -- all while our toes poke through the big ugly macrame blanket in front of a fire on an especially cold November night. The woman who watches Serendipity for the twentieth time with me on the couch, her head on my shoulder, our feet gently caressing one another.
That's something I hope to make a reality someday.