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Her Shoes

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In the first second you look at her, you pity her. The way she walks, foot lifting in a jagged arc, dreading contact with earth, degrading the careless grace of motion. You look for a source of what it is that makes her walk like this, makes her shoulders tense and her eyebrows half a notch too high, which she hopes comes off as eager but her distant eyes give away pain-- no, worse, a vain effort to conceal pain.
Your eyes find her shoes. 5 inches of hard plastic that from the looks of it might as well be knives in her heels. Leopard print pinching her toes.
In that second you see her days: putting on clothes, putting on faces, laughs, words, for others. It is selfless and pathetically needy. You see that there are moments when thoughts pop into her head, whispering that she doesn't really like all these people she has sunk herself into, realizing little there is to sink in, but that she is drowning all the same... And you see her shake these thoughts off, because this is what life is, no use complaining, and look at her, she's sexy in those heels.
You see that and you want her to rip off those goddamn shoes. To let the blisters bleed on the cold pavement until they heal!
The second passes. She's gone in the crowd. Your car drives past. You never think of her again.





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