Those Red High-Heels

I’m not a high-heeled kind of girl.

Usually I prefer the ever-versatile tennis shoes, canvas so worn in places that it’s an absolute miracle that they don’t just simply fall apart. Or perhaps a nice pair of flip-flops, beach style, so worn down that they’ve got the imprint of my feet on their foam soles.

But for the most part, bare-foot is the way to go. There’s something about feeling the cool greenness of the grass between my toes that just takes me back to being a child, long braids trailing in the wind, bright eyed with wonder and innocence.

Yeah, I’m not a high-heeled kind of girl.

But, you know, those red heels just do something to me. They sit stagnant and waiting in the back right-hand corner of my closet, collecting their magic. I can sense it, but the moment’s got to be just right.

You can’t just wear the red heels on any old day.

And today’s the day I think, digging through piles of art portfolios and button-up shirts and stuffed animals, down to the corner to reach their ruby redness.

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