365 Days (Part 1) | ✓

118. Shoes

118. Shoes: What kind of shoes do you wear? Where do they lead your feet?

Loafers. Oh my, loafers and heels and laces twining up cracked, vintage leather like elegant snakes slithering upon a tree. She breathed in the tastes of it, swirling through the air like perfume. The very aroma of the materials wafted around the store and she was intoxicated.

She could remember long ago when she frequented like-minded stores that they did not hold nearly the same fascination for her. They had simply been a place to puchase footwear, and not a haven of comfort.

But that had been when she had shoes of her own upon her feet.

She padded hesitantly into the room, with each step away form the door taking a step away from possible freedom. Yet she was only free because she had nothing to tie her down, and with nothing to tie her down she was not free.

She was not anything but a girl wishing to buy shoes, she reminded herself. It was a thought she had to strictly enforce, to convince herself that she was not a beggar. She had the money. Perhaps she had begged for the money, but she would not beg for the shoes. It was a different matter.

Money. How she hated it because she needed it and did not have it.

At the back of the store was a counter. The surface was slightly grainy; slightly worn with much use; hackneyed. A silver bell, the kind that's in hotels (she remembered going there too) sat alone on the top. There were fingerprints on it. Silver, she reflected, was one of the few items that bore marks of past lives that touched it. But it could be easily erased.

She did not. She just rang the bell.

Out of a swinging door (creak, it went) off to the side emerged a man. She was surprised at his appearance. Perhaps it was because as a young girl, when her skin was youthful and her eyes filled with promises, both given and assumed, she had only interacted with old cobblers. This one was young. She realized only later it was because he had recently started his practice and that was why his products were cheap enough that even she could afford them.

He was tall and broad: well-built, her mother would have said. Though his face was not classic, he had regular features, save for his nose, which was hooked sharply. His hair was as red as a Scotsman's, and as long as that acceptable in a time period long before. He tied his shoulder-length hair at the nape of his neck.

"Hello," he said, and his accent, contrary to his appearance, was completely English. He had had a friendly look, but upon glimsping her disheveled hair and dress, he assumed an air of wariness. However, he did not immediately chase her out, and for that she was grateful.

"Good day, Sir," she said, attempting to imitate the civilized demeanor she once possessed. "I am here for some shoes."

"I apologize, Madam, but I cannot afford to help you, as much as I want to," he said regretfully, beginning to usher her out.

"No, you misunderstand," she said, blushing at herself and her circumstances. "I can pay."

"Oh?" He stopped.

"Yes, I-I have the money."

She withdrew it from her pocket and thrust it almost desperately into his hand. It had been long since she had owned that amount of sums, and carrying it around gave her a heaviness of responsibility and a lightness of ability.

He stared at it and then at her. "I apologize. I should not have assumed. What kind of shoes would you be looking for today?

Her shoulders relaxed at his acceptance. "Basic, everyday shoes, but as you can see... anything will do." She cast an embarrassed glance down at her bare feet, hoping that by acknowledging them in a joke, feeble as it was, would lesson theor pitifulness. However, her shame in having to trod about with no shoes was too much for her to pass her attempt with ease. She merely sounded awkward, like a poor, uneducated girl would. She had no right to be awkward. If only she could have retained her gracefulness, but that had vanished with her money.

"I see."

She looked away so she did not have to see the pity he looked at her with. Anytime else, it would be welcome; after all, no person gave over money to those they did not feel sorry for. Yet now, she had the payment. She was a customer, not a beggar. Why could she not project that?

Because it's a lie. A constume. A disguise. And she sensed this man with the vivid hair was adept at lifting masks to see what they hid.

"I'll see what I can find." He handed her the wad of money back so his hands were free to retrieve shoes.

He moved away, and she experienced some of the most uncomfortable moments of her life, struggling between feeling out of place and convinced he was evaluating her as he thoughtfully chose various shoe boxes. She did not know what to do with her hands while she stood there, and wondered what she usually did with her hands.

Finally he returned with several selections. "These are all of the most basic styles," he said, pulling the lid off of the topmost box in the stack. "All are durable and sensible."

She peered inside at the plain brown shoes and suppressed a shudder from her past. Her grandmother had used to wear similar shoes, and had once predicted, when she had questioned why, that she would someday end up in the same type of shoes. She had, in her youthful ignorance of the possible future, vehemently refuted the statement. It appeared, however, that her grandmother had been prophetic.

The cobbler was watching her closely, she realized belatedly, and he said professionally, "Not these." He closed the box and placed it aside while she blushed at how rude she must have seemed to him, staring at his creation with enough disgust to impress him with her dislike.

"They are fine," she attempted to say. "They just... remind me of her grandmother." Then she realized that in trying to excuse her behavior, she had implied that his designs were outdated. Her blush intensified.

He smiled, and she thought it was one of unfathomable kindness. "I see. What was your grandmother like?"

She thought it was an odd question, but recognized it as his attempt to make her feel more at her ease. "She was strong and stubborn, to the last. She never let hardship sway her indomitable spirit. I wish I had been like her."

He opened the next box, and revealed showed her another simple shoes, this time of black and narrower. She carefully arranged her features into impassivity and nodded. They were not her absolute perferred form of footwear, but she was ready to be done with shopping.

How odd that an activity that used to bring her so much greedy pleasure did nothing but cause her discomfort.

"She sounded like a fine woman."

"She was."

"These?" the cobbler inquired.

"Yes, if you please."

He placed them into the box with precise movements and handed it to her. She held out the money, but though his hand reached out to it, he did not take it. He enclosed his large, rough hand over her small, calloused one. "No," he said gently. "Keep it."

She stared. Was this kindness? Was this mercy unasked for? He gently pushed her out of his store, and she let him, as floods of disbelief and gratefulness filled her. "I -- thank you." It did not occur to her to refuse. She knew the joy of giving a gift to deprive someone of it, as much as pride may be hurt.

"You are welcome."

*

A/N: Random fluff... it was either this or me obsessing over my shoe collection.