Every day you promise to pay for them. Every day. Finally I let you. Because they are old, anyway. Because I can buy a new pair with the money and still have enough for two more. Because I need the money.

You stare with shopworn eyes while I slip them off, one at a time. Your mouth is an open drawer and I feel like I am performing. I wish I had done it slower.

“Pink…nice,” you groan. I shuffle my toes against the dirty sidewalk, suddenly ashamed of my peeling self-pedicure. The ground is cold but I don’t feel it.

I want to watch you with them, but I don’t tell you this. A man buying things from a woman he has worn down from begging is a man obsessed. How he must look when he takes them home, smells them, delirium drunk on his face, a hard on strong enough to break stone. This is something I want to see; him furious with his fist, face buried in my soles. Or will he sit with them as long as he can stand, sniffing. Savoring.

He kneels down and takes them gently like a treasure. I wait for him to get up. I want to watch his eyes.