“Be careful with these,” I instructed, handing the shoe cobbler a very expensive and badly scarred pair of high heels.
……….
I lit them on fire last week, after our most recent fight, but came to my senses before the damage turned irreparable. Dousing the shoes in water, I put them with her other shoes.
I fished them out, carved the letter K into the sole of the left shoe. Then I put them back again, pleased.
“Let’s go out,” she said later, apparently ready to be a loving couple again. “Somewhere fancy. I’ll wear my Louboutins.”
“Wait,” I said, steeling myself for something awful…
……….
“Call me when they’re fixed,” she texted later, having left angrily.
……….
The shoe cobbler was young. She was too pretty, her nails too long and skirt too short to be someone who toiled over footwear all day. But whatever. I handed her the shoes.
……….
That night the shoe cobbler came to my door wearing only the Louboutins. “I’m sorry for the way I’ve been acting,” she said in a voice that belonged to someone else. She moved to take the shoes off, as is customary in my house. I grabbed her hand: “You’d probably better not.”
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