I’m in an elevator, barefoot, holding five shopping bags, a big purse, a lunch bag, along with a backpack. My hair is a mess of curls and looks wet; we worked out in the morning. I’m wearing the black leggings I bought last week and a long, green shirt I borrowed from my sister. My eyeliner is smeared, leaving a black shadow underneath my lids. The mascara sill remains.
No more details. You get the picture.
So I’m in the elevator, tired and worn out. A man asks which floor and I say five please. He presses five. Before he gets off at level three, he remarks, “it’s kind of cold, the floor”, looking at my bare feet. I smile at the friendly stranger and say, “I don’t care. My shoes were killing me.” He seems satisfied by this answer and looks at me once more before wishing me a good day.
“Fifth floor,” the recorded machine says.
I get off and stagger to my apartment. My toes are swollen and red. How many times am I going to make the same mistake? How many times do I have to remind myself that pretty shoes hurt?