Shoe Filling

She doesn’t know how
it happened looking at
the visa bill quivering
in her hands. She is a
sensible woman: fingering
her mother’s pearls
and tapping her comfortable,
affordable shoe on the
kitchen linoleum. She
goes to the back of her
closet where she hid the
offenders still in their box:
She lifts the lid and there
they are, sleeping in
white tissue that crinkles
as she pulls one out.
Turning it in the dim
light of her bedroom,
it glitters – the heal hard
and straight in her
loosely closed fingers.
She puts them on, tucking
the tail of the strap into the
tiny buckle at her ankle.
She goes to the mirror
and sees the lift in her calves,
the line of muscle that
springs to life and runs
down the length of her slender
legs. She bites at the nail
she manicured herself,
looking down at the shoes.
A week’s worth of groceries
Her brow furrows and
the toes point inward involuntarily.