S H O E S

‘You know what they call these shoes?’ Mona asks, that look in her eye. She’s changed into these sparkly magenta heels with sharp toes that look like they’re killing her. I can tell by the look in her eye that she’s going to say something racy, but I’ve got my back to her so I just shrug my shoulders. Bernice’s game, though: I hear her saying ‘What?’

‘Fuck-me shoes,’ Mona says, smirking. Bernice makes this Ooooh shape with her mouth and swats Mona on the shoulder. ‘Do they work?’ she shrieks. I grunt, but I don’t say anything. Mona and I are the same age, but I don’t have any fuck-me shoes.

‘I’ll let you know tomorrow,’ I hear Mona telling Bernice. The two of them go out together, laughing their heads off. I finish wiping down the counter. It’s already clean, but I’d rather let Mona and Bernice leave first. It’s my turn to lock up tonight anyway.

 Like I said, I don’t have any fuck-me shoes. We’re on our feet all day long; the last thing I need is shoes like vices to squeeze and crush my feet with a heel so high I’m grinding my toe-bones into the ground with every step I take, walking around all pushed forward, just so I can get some man all hot and heavy at the end of the day just when I’m ready to sit down and put my feet up. No thank you.

I’ve got a whole collection of shoes, though. I’ve got pumps that I wear to weddings and funerals. Got a little bit of a heel on them, good leather, the best I could afford. I shine those up and keep them clean, out of the mud. Then there’re the ones I waitress in. They’re white and ugly, like nurses’ shoes, but really beat-up on account of the fact that they get worn so much. They’re spattered with tomato sauce and coffee and the heels are worn down, but boy are they comfortable. I’ve got beach shoes I hardly ever wear ‘cause I hardly ever get to go to the beach, jogging shoes from when I thought I’d try and lose some weight a couple years back, and six-year-old hand-me-down boots from my eldest for when the weather’s really bad.

I’ve also got a pair of fancy gold shoes I bought about twenty-five years ago and maybe wore ten times but no way could I get rid of them.

Those gold shoes, they’re comfortable, considering how good they look. But that’s not why I hang onto them. I keep them because sometimes, when I get home and I’ve had a hard day at work and my feet are really killing me – maybe somebody was nasty on the train or the kids were dissing me or whatever – I take a bath, then put on my good black dress. And I put on those gold shoes.  You can laugh, but when I’ve got those shoes on, I’m twenty-five again, I swear to God. Who cares if I’m thicker and greyer and the only reason men look at me now is to get me to bring them more coffee? In those gold shoes and my good black dress, I know I’m somebody.

They’re my respect-me shoes.