My left foot slipped off the curb too soon and the back of my shoe grazed hard against the cement. I lifted my foot backwards, awkwardly, to check the damage. Yep, a curved cat-like scratch and a messy streak of velvet gone, rubbed away. Now there's a crooked smile on the back of my shoe. "Damn."
I knew something like a pair of dark green suede flats had to have a short-lived lease on perfection, but I got them anyway. You don't leave behind a pair of shoes when they happen to be the exact shade of green you've seen just one other time in your life, and when they are exactly a six and a half even though most shoes don't even come in half sizes, and when your eyes fall on them just as your favorite song starts to play in the store and Etta James is crooning all gooey and languid about lonely days and clovers wrapped around her heart.
This morning, I took in the powder gray-blue sky in less than an instant and knew I couldn't possibly be expected to focus on stepping around sidewalk pitfalls and patches of damp grass. My heart was elsewhere.