My new shoes

by Ruby Brunton

My new shoes are a pair of black wedges.
They are made of suede, leather, rubber and have metal buckles.
They danced a tango across a wooden floor as others looked on admiringly.
I love bringing them together sharply in the eighth step, sliding them across the floor in an ocho, pirouetting them in a million circles.
They smell of raw hide, squeaky new shop smell, plastic, wet grass and earth that got stuck to them when I went walking in the park, chemical protector spray.
They are chewy on top, brittle like hard toffees in the middle, with spongy soles like fresh pikelets.
I use them as a flotation device; when I’m sinking and need to be uplifted, they transport me across oceans.
The old lady lived in one of them with all her hungry children, they were not very comfortable due to the rain getting in. They had to huddle under the ankle strap.
Mary Magdalene wore them. They were called wanton wedges as the heel rose higher than your average women’s sandal, but she didn’t care because she knew she looked damn fine.

I was unsure about the flatform at first, but they have grown on me.

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