The shoes, they won't stop calling out to me. I walk down the road, in the rain, or even in the snow, and these peachy shoes, with the thin straps that wrapped perfectly under my ankles, they keep whispering.

I bought them discounted over on 16th, at that shoe warehouse place (my sister used to call it the shoe whorehouse, because that's what we'd do to get the money to buy in there, well not really, but almost) and I saw them on the shelf one early Saturday. The shop was empty. These shoes, they called out to me. Buy me, buy me, you know how things do sometimes.

I wore them out that day, and I feel, I don't know, lighter or something. Do you think that's possible, that shoes can affect your sense of gravity? I would look down as I walked and almost want to stop and tap by heels together.

These shoes were perfect, with my cream colored tights. They made my feet seem so dainty. And float. I'd look and it would seem like the sidewalk would be falling alway. The rain would be coming down and I'd be going up.

I smacked my head on the awning of the shop, when I first came out. I'd had this feeling of, well, lightness, of course, but at the same time as it was outside it was inside and I couldn't think straight. No one had seen me, floating up into the wet awning. I have to grab something or I'll fall