(via Shoeturday: Black Iris |)
I don’t even wear heels, but every time I see these shoes, I go weak everywhere. I don’t want to wear them, I just want to take them somewhere nice and tell them how beautiful they are. I want to have a wholesome and fulfilling relationship with these shoes, before they leave me for someone with slender ankles and shapely calves, and I spend all my time eating chocolates and looking at pictures of them together, on facebook, hoping to see a hint of remorse in either of their eyes, even though they’re never going to be anything but happy and beautiful, together, reaching heights I could never have taken the shoes to. In the end, I’ll show up to one of their Krug and shepherd’s pie parties, embarrassingly drunk, in a pair of strappy sandals far too young for me, and stand on top of their piano to give a drunken rendition of “If I Fell”, by the Beatles, before ironically falling from the piano and hitting my head on their grey Spanish slate floor, resulting in unconsciousness and memory loss. In the hospital, a nurse will give me a pair of sensible gym boots for my first walk outdoors in a week, and I will learn to love them and respect myself, once more. We will move to a place in the country, where we’ll take to reheeling worn down school shoes for the less fortunate and live out our years in quiet contentment.