So I rarely put any of my actual writing in here. This may change. I may switch blog formats or this may simply remain a place for my more than mindless chatter and eventually I will find a home for snippets of writing. But yesterday I went shopping--yes, as shallow as that may be, this post is about shopping--and while the events that I will relate to you in this piece of fiction have very little to do with what happened on that day, there was something inspiring about being in that store with that pair of shoes that got a narrative started in my head. This morning it decided to spill out.
Wandering the aisles of shoes was something akin to wandering through an art gallery. While I admired what I saw, I didn't dare touch anything. I couldn't help but look at the price tags and think what they were all equivalent to. Gas for a month. A week's worth of groceries for a family of five... I couldn't justify it. Not even to the most fashion hungry, senseless part of me. So I'd resigned myself to blankly browse the clearance racks.
Nothing remarkable--a few hideous items. In a place with such stunning shoes, there is a reason some get left behind. The rejects that designers hope will get swept under the rug when a review of their collections comes around.
So it must have been a fluke... or rather I saw something that no one else could upon first glance. It was the rivets that caught my eye first. Dark metal that held the shoe together and gave it a look somewhat reminiscent of the industrial age. It secured straps of leather--leather far softer upon touch than appearance--in a design that seemed befit for a roman soldier. The heel was tall but strong. Not quite thick enough to make the piece chunky but to give a feeling of support. I turned them over in my hands and ran my fingers across the bottom: traction. Something you rarely find in a heel, but it gave these a sense of danger--or rather a sense that the wearer could take on danger.
Within that strange suspension of time that fascination and curiousity seem to give birth to, I sunk into a chair and carefully buckled them on my feet, rolling up my jeans in the process so I could get a proper look. When I stood again, I was surprised by their comfort. A secure but gentle hold around my feet. I took a few steps until I was infront of the mirror and stopped.
"Where did you get those?"
Perhaps it was years of working in retail or the fact that I hated being spoken to by strangers while doing something so intimate and relaxing as shopping, but the inquiry of the girl who had seemed to have just materialized beside me felt akin to the annoying buzz of an insect when it accidentally bumps into your ear mid-flight.
"Clearance rack," I managed a polite reply, but my eyes remained locked on my reflection.
"Oh," she said. That kind of 'oh' that knew what was currently strapped to my feet might as well have been one of a kind. The kind of 'oh' that was wrapped in jealousy and disappointment. The kind of 'oh' that left a bitter taste in your mouth when you uttered it. That very 'oh' that you yourself have found speaking about so many other people and things in your life and for once was spoken in regards to you. When you hear that 'oh'... it is orgasmic.
"They're probably last season, then." It's the consolation you tell yourself. The flimsy reasoning of why you wouldn't want something you can't have anyway. I knew it well and for a minute I almost felt sorry for her.
But nothing could deter my feeling towards these shoes. She had a point. They were probably last season... but they did things that shoes didn't seem capapble of. These shoes were magic. These shoes hoisted up my heels and gave my stubby legs the illusion of length and elegence. These shoes spoke of things like power and sex and independence. These shoes transformed me somewhere between Amazon and Dominatrix and these shoes... were in my price range.