For Deborah
I was on the display rack at a whopping 15% off when her eyes met me. She was wearing some horribly worn taupe flats that mismatched her dress-pants and made her look like she was three inches shorter since her pants dragged along the ground. She bent over to cuff the legs of her pants up and when she stood up with her heavy purse heaved onto her left shoulder she caught a glimpse of me. A glimpse was all that it took. I was on the shelf that met her at eye level- the third up from the bottom and second from the top. The showroom lights illuminated me perfectly and showed all of my best features although I had started to collect a thin layer of dust from being on the same shelf for two weeks- only having been picked up by a hopeful teenage girl that couldn't fit into me and a divorcee' that couldn't afford me.
There I was- Black genuine leather Nine West 5-inch heel pumps with a rounded toe circa 2006. I had every quality to make her outfit both sexy and professional. She let out a small gasp at me and then looked around her to make sure nobody heard her. Her fingers ran across my toe and then along the heel. She then flipped me over to check out my price. Soon, I was snug in my box and in the back seat of her red Volvo.
Our first night together, she wore me with a garter belt and black laced bra as a surprise to her boyfriend. I was sleek in the low light of candlelight as my "left self" spent the night at the bedroom door and my "right self" got thrown onto the bra and stockings. The next morning, I was worn with jeans to a coffee date with her girlfriend and again that evening to her corporate Christmas party with a snug yet sophisticated red cocktail dress. I slipped on ice a few times, but the compliments I received at the party was worth every unstable step.
I was worn so often over the next 3 weeks that my insoles conformed perfectly to her feet- like Cinderella's perfect fit. The bottoms of my soles became scratched from bits of loose gravel on the sidewalk and unforgiving winter sidewalk salt. I got retired to her closet during the several winter storms and was replaced with distasteful gray winter boots. I didn't want to go out in that horrible winter slush anyway so I waited patiently and gave my weary soles rest.
In the second week of February I was rehired to impress as I escorted her to an important interview. The receptionist complimented her on me as well as the intern, but I think he was interested more than me. She sat on the couch and waited nervously as she reviewed her resume' once more and mentally reviewed how to best pitch herself to the boss. Her legs were crossed and she moved her ankle back and forth; shaking me all over the place. He did the same thing even worse once she was talking to the HR manager. I didn't blame her since she was interviewing with the person she could potentially be replacing.
She got the job in the end and I was worn to her celebration dinner with her boyfriend. He was happy for her although he would be seeing less of her due to all of the business trips that were already scheduled for her. That night, I was left at the door as they danced around their town home with champagne and made love as if they wouldn't see each other ever again. She saw him again in the morning, of course when she rolled over and I sat frozen stiff from the cold air drifting in from outside through the crack that he had promised to fix weeks before.
Over the next four years I accompanied her to PowerPoint presentations, seminars, company parties and other business-related trips to: Phoenix, Boston, Houston, L.A., Nashville, Miami, Chicago, New York City and my personal favorite- old Quebec City. My left heel tap had to be replaced in Quebec because of the combination of the extra glass of wine and cobblestone leading to the hotel. She always missed him when she was gone and I knew that upon their reunion I would be left by the front door with only the bookcase to stare at unless the dog carried me away on a whim of bravery.
I became worn less and less by her because my insoles wore thin and my leather became too scuffed. She had fallen several times while wearing me over the past month and I think she just got tired of the hastle. I was placed back in my box and pushed to the far left corner of her closet. The only light that ever shown on me was if she happened to open my box by accident- mistaking me for a different pair of Nine West from years before.
She wore me once more to a doctor's appointment. Her newest addition of me had been left at her office when she opted out of them and into flip-flops at a late night at work. She was in a hurry to her appointment since it was squeeze in between her second morning meeting and an early lunch with a prospective employee. She sat and jiggled me back and forth as her legs shook and she checked her watch once more. The doctor came in with her medical files in hand.
"I'm afraid I have bad news, Deborah." the doctor began.
He explained the reason that she had been falling wasn't me; the insoles or worn heels. She was diagnosed with Lou Gehrig disease that day and the realization that one day she wouldn't be walking with me or any other shoes on her feet would set in a lot faster than either of us anticipated. Within three months, she was only wearing house-slippers on the days that she could get out of bed. On the "good days" her boyfriend would place her old tennis shoes on her feet and help her out to the car as she leaned into his shoulder.
One day, she had a friend come over to clean out her closet and help box up the items she wanted to give away. She picked me up; rubbed the worn rounded toe and placed me in my old box with the lid missing. I was carried out to her friend's car and I heard the most heartbreaking cried I had ever heard as I rode from my old home to a new one. Like their friendship, I had stood the test of time but couldn't change the outcome of what would be. We both had another year of function and life left in us if we were lucky.
I was eventually given to a woman named Nikki and I traveled up I-26 and then 66 to her home near D.C. She cleaned me up some and made me look better although I'll never look brand-new again. I may never be worn by her as often as I was worn by Deborah. Even if from between the crack in her closet door, I may watch Nikki raise a child or paint her bedroom walls a different color. I may accompany her to an interview or walk across the stage with her when she graduates college. I may never be worn at all and if not, that's ok- there are still many stories to come from me. In ever scratch, scuff and worn piece of me- Deborah has left stories to be told.
youuu are amazing!
ReplyDelete