My name is Shoes. I want to walk but I’m shut in, my leather cracking. Sometimes, the wardrobe creaks and sunshine falls like knives across my uppers. Then there’s a sigh, the door closes and dust snowflakes down. Is it her?
I want to dance. Above me, Best-Dress flutters. I don’t like the dark, but she keeps me company. We’ve always been a team.
Best-dress whispers, she'll dance again.
Tell me the story, Best-dress.
That first night she filled me with her cinnamon body, stroked my layers and sprayed Arpege on my neckline. She stepped into you, Shoes, then we ran through the wet dark streets, to the dance hall.
I remember the chandeliers, the parquet floor beneath my soles and his midnight brogues. I waltzed, and you flew. When they stopped for a martini slammer, she played footsie, her hot foot wriggling out of me to touch his leg. I lay on my side, gasping for air.
Best-Dress sighs. My skirts frothed against her legs as they walked home. In the bedroom he unzipped me, and I collapsed onto the floor. Suit fell on me. We were so good together, Suit and I, my silk to his linen. All night we tangled on the chair, our fabrics twisting layer on layer.
It was my first time too, Best-Dress. He unstrapped my buckle, held me in the palm of his hand and I fell. His shoelace pooled inside me all night.
‘I’ll make a start on the wardrobe.’
It isn’t her.
Above us, hangers rattle. Best-Dress shrinks but hands pull her into the glare. Then I’m lifted from my box and long nails scratch my leather.
‘Pretty once. Do you think we could? I mean, is it appropriate?’
We’re together again. I’m by her side and she wears Best-Dress.
The dark is constant, but in our dreams, we dance.
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