It was way past midnight. As a private dick, Brit did not cast aspersions on anyone, but she did look for cruel shoes. She herself wore cruel shoes, the kind with heels that vaguely resembled upright steak knives and a buttressed toe that could ram the gates of Troy. She(more) wore her shoes for protection. She hadn't asked to be attractive. What do you do? Get on the fetus phone and ask your mother to engineer you differently? With her red tresses and slutty green eyes, Brit looked like a pole dancer on a cigarette break. The shoes were insurance.
Tonight, she prowled 3rd and Pike looking for a suspect. The sleepers were already asleep, rolled into their rags and their mud-colored sleeping bags in corners and in alleys. Some kids no longer with curfews or homes chased each other's hollow laughter in the dark. Brit drew up the collar of her favorite winter coat. Damn this job. She could have been a paralegal with a warm office and regular hours.
A small dome-backed woman with one shoe reinforced with three extra inches of heel limped up the street towards her. She held a umbrella in one hand, a rolled up newspaper in the other. Madame LaFarge. Brit and every detective in the city knew her. Her dome-back was, in fact, stryofoam and her shoe-lift fake. The umbrella was just an umbrella, but the newspaper held a concealed Baretta 92fs. Without her disguise, LaFarge was a tall lithesome gymnast who, with one spring, could break your neck like her knees were a nut-cracker. She was not smart, which is why she knew a little Dickens but always wore the same disguise.
Brit caressed the Glock in her pocket. Stupid did not mean not dangerous. She was ready for anything. (less)
When getting dressed, I often stop to survey my shoe collection (and take a restorative gulp of coffee) and decide which pair would go best with my outfit.
Invariably, it's the gray suede boots I choose. They're so old they sag around the ankles. The heels are worn awa(more)y at an angle because of the funny way I walk. I've spilled coffee, Comet, and crab meat on them, yet they aren't terribly stained and don't even smell too awful. I guess they don't hold grudges.
They keep my feet reasonably dry in a wet, wet world. Is there really anything else I could ask for?
Well, as a matter of fact there is something else I ask for. Desire. My boots, as stalwart and loyal as they are, are not pretty. They aren't delicate, curvy, cruel things. Boys Do Not Notice My Feet. Until they're bare. That's another story, though.
I was having coffee at a friend's shop one rare sunny day. A fellow was sitting on a bar stool, talking to her, with his back to me. The hem of his jean had bunched up just enough to reveal the white line of an ankle sock above his purple Chucks, and above it, soft golden hairs preserving its modesty, the delicate anklebone. I drank my coffee more slowly. This voyeurism into the little cavern under his jeans thrilled me. I thought about the space between skin and fabric, the heat trapped there.
I want to think I understood a little something more about boys then, and how something as silly as a pair of shoes can make whole cities tremble with desire.
* * *
It goes without saying that She wears tall, cruel, sexy shoes. I just wish she'd put some goddamn makeup on that skull.(less)
I am a traitor to my sex.
For some reason unbeknownst to me, I have no interest in shoes. Not for me, the thousand dollar Manolo Blahniks. You can keep your Jimmy Choos too.
Give me a pair of Doc Martins any day over those over-priced torture devices. (more)I could happily live out the rest of my life in my Uggs. Although neither my Docs nor my Uggs do any justice to my feet, to me it's all about the comfort-factor.
Sometimes I wish I loved wearing heels because I can rock a pair of stilettos with the best of them,but at a hair shy of 5'10 in my bare feet I already tower over most people in my life.
Yeah, I know, poor excuse, right? But it's all I got.
That's not true, what I got is a pair of killer legs and dancer's feet. A nice high arch, perfectly formed toes and a long stretch of legs nearly reaching up to my neck. Even when I was a little girl men remarked on how beautifully shaped my legs were and I've only gotten better with age.
Hey, we gotta work with what we were given and I was given a great set of gams which look spectacular in thigh-high stockings and spike-heel shoes.
So why do I waste them by stuffing them into clunky boots?
I should take advantage of my God-given gifts and shake my money-maker while wearing a pair of tastefully decadent black spike-heel shoes with a nice four-inch heel to show off my long lean legs.
With my luck though,the minute I slip my feet into a sexy pair of pumps will be the exact minute the Zombie Apocalypse starts.
If I have to run for my life, give me Uggs or give me death.(less)
What does this mean, "cruel shoes"? Does it mean literally shoes that are cruel to your feet, like the impossibly pointy toe stilletos I feel compelled to buy and cram my equally impossibly wide feet into? This causes me to walk around in pain all day cursing the silly(more) but sexy shoes. As luck would have it I'm just not that invested in this particular look so those shoes have been tossed. I'm creative, I can find other ways to feel sexy without foot torture.
But maybe I am missing the meaning here. Maybe it means walking a mile in someone else's shoes, as in putting yourself in that person's place, trying to experience the world from another's view point. And perhaps that person has had a rough life; walking in the shoes of a homeless person would mean walking in cruel shoes.
I don't have to look very far to find a good example. I think about my mother, who was schizophrenic and a child Holocaust survivor. Or my aunt, who died at age 36. Or a friend of mine who has to go to the emergency room every few weeks because of an intestinal thing no one can figure out. No, I do not have cruel shoes. Compared to my family and certain friends I've had it pretty easy and I appreciate it. I'm now in a position to help out and give back.