Why Those Shoes II

“I really don’t think I’m asking too much.”

The woman speaks quietly to the stilettos she buckles tight to her feet. The woman places the blister prevention on her heel and stares at the curve of her waist in the mirror. “You see,” she goes on, staining her lips a provocative color before glancing down at the shiny, black leather, “You’re new here, but I think you have great potential. I think you’ll be an asset to the team; your position is key, you see:

I wear those pink pumps when it’s time for a raise.

He says, “Hey doll face, buy yourself a nice pair of shoes.”

I wear those gold sandals and have never paid for drinks.

After nights I won’t remember with the people who forgot to ask my name,

I think it’s real luck to wake up with a wallet full of dignity and my gold sandals.

And those neon wedges, I swear, have single handedly kept chivalry alive on days I’m sure all that’s left in this world is a misinterpreted Bible.

And now you’re here,

but perhaps no one told you, perhaps you aren’t aware:

This is not a world of men and women coexisting.

This is a world of men and

women walking through it.

I can see that you must’ve been made by a man in a factory built by a man in a burning economy designed by men – yes! You are the shoe to make my calves look fierce, to make my ass tighter, my waist smaller, my voice higher, you are the shoe to make my dreams come true!

It is you who will tell the company executive to accept my proposal. It is you who will follow him to his hotel room to sign the agreement, clacking along the marble with the sort of confidence only a naive stiletto can possess

and I will not stop you.  

It will go further than my education has prepared me for and all I ask is that you bring me home unharmed. As I said before, I really don’t think I’m asking too much. You see, there have been many shoes before you.

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