Three About Shoes by Hobie Anthony
Three About Shoes
Footprints in Concrete
I'd walked for an hour when the blisters burst. Soon, my feet started bleeding. I had you on the phone; you told me it was over. I walked all over town. I was searching for an address but I didn't know the street. Blood filled the boots, my feet heavy weight. Every squishy step a spike in my heart.
Shoe Horned
You called them Mary Janes, I craned my neck for a glimpse of arch. You called them pumps and I crossed my legs. I had something to hide. High heels made me faint and flip-flops made my heart flutter. Crawling on the floor, looking under the bed, I found your sneaker and took a sniff. My eyes watered, my stomach lurched. I looked up and saw you standing. Your mouth opened in surprise; your eyes flared anger. Your thighs were so strong; your buttocks firm and round.
Fresh, Crisp
You liked me in work boots. Muddy, workman-strong. We were in the same store. Standing in line, you inhaled me after a day on a summer worksite. I asked you to a cafeteria. They have a great salad bar; that was my promise. My belt didn't match my shoes, ranch dressing fell on your open toes.
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Hobie Anthony is an MFA from Queens University of Charlotte, NC who writes fiction and poetry in Portland, OR, his latest port of call. His work is in or forthcoming in Pank, The Los Angeles Review, Crate, R.kv.r.y., M-Brane SF, Prime Number, and Prime Mincer, among others.
Presently, he is working on poetry and a novel (or two).
Learn more about Hobie Anthony at his website: www.hobieanthony.com.