You come through the door and I can’t help but feel sorry for the shoes on your feet. Their original color is indiscernible, with so many holes that your mismatching socks are plainly displayed. Those are well loved, devoted shoes, and you’re here to replace them. I try to let you know that I would be just as loyal. I wouldn’t fall apart, either. My sole is firmly attached, and I’m made of a durable, dirt resistant material.
Your eyes skim over me, and come to a rest on little miss Purple Jazz beside me. Don’t be stupid now. You don’t want her. She will deceive you. She will lure you into a false sense of security and then attack. She’ll rip holes in your skin, and the blood will never wash out. Purple Jazz is weak and spineless. She offers you no support. She only wants to hurt you. Don’t touch her.
You pull Purple Jazz out of her box and take off your old, worn out shoes. Your feet, clad in mismatched and torn socks, slide into her. You tie the laces and stand up. I know what you’re thinking as you test her, walking down the aisle and back. She looks good. She feels nice. You smile, and sit back down.
Now your eyes land on Purple Jazz’ price tag. Your smile vanishes, and you sit still for a moment, thinking. You’re counting something in your head. You frown, and take Purple Jazz off your feet. You scan the shelves in front of you, and frown deeper. Then your eyes land on me, and you go straight for my price tag. Your eyes brighten, and you pull my box off of the shelf. I am so excited I have trouble not jumping right onto your feet.
You set me down, and pick up Purple Jazz again. Come on, I told you not to be stupid. I’m half the price, and twice the quality. And I’ve been waiting so long for someone to care for me. What’s the point of being shoes if nobody walks in you? If nobody’s feet keep you warm? Just try me on. I’ll be the most comfortable thing you’ve ever worn.
You sigh, and pull the paper out from inside of me. Your toes tickle me momentarily, then find their place and settle down. Your heels find a perfect resting place in my soles. I feel your muscles relax, and your weight shifts. You have a gentle, agreeable walk, and I exert no effort in not pinching you. We’re a perfect fit.
“Can I help you with anything?” Hi-My-Name-Is-Katie has appeared. She glances at me, and says, “I have a pair of those in blue. They’re the most comfortable shoes I’ve ever owned.”
You shrug. “They’re nice.”
“How do they fit?”
“Really good. Now I’m just trying to decide between them and these.” You gesture back toward Purple Jazz.
Hi-My-Name-Is-Katie grins at Purple Jazz. “Oh, I love those shoes. They’re so cute.”
“I know,” you say, “I’m in love with them. But they’re a bit out of my price range.”
You look back and forth between Purple Jazz and me, still on your feet, as Katie waits. Finally, you say, “Oh screw it. I’m getting the purple ones.”
“Oh, good choice. I can help you at the till if you’re ready.”
You put me back on the shelf, and walk away with Purple Jazz in your arms. I watch you pay, and hope your feet bleed for weeks. You’re an idiot. We were perfect for each other.
