My legs go on doing their own beautifully defined thing. I beat the dress down with my hands. “I like your shoes,” he admired. “You like my shoes?” I asked, bewildered. “That’s it? My shoes?” I tell you, that’s the first man who’s ever liked me for my shoes. And they weren’t expensive shoes—they weren’t Manolo Blanhik or Prada. I bought them at a junk shop when I was a student. Very high, very pale yellow and very strappy. They went with the gown. “Are you married?” I asked. “No. But I could be. Are you good with children and dogs?” “Dogs?” But he had to go. He was in a hurry. He had more important matters to attend to, a plane to catch. I caught hold of his foot at the top of the ladder as it was about to disappear over the embankment. He turned to look at me strung out below. “My shoes,” I said again. I had taken them off for ease of climbing. I waved them, trying to revive the subject. He wouldn’t be drawn. He was gone. I called the magazine editor to get his number. It wasn’t. I knew it didn’t matter where it came from or how ugly the guy turned out to be because all she was focused on was that it was super hard and that the guy was sober enough to finish what he had started sooner rather than later. I had seen her in that sort of funk and it was not a pretty picture and that’s a fact.She would use her big mouth to get things on track and not give up until she felt it right down to her pretty painted toes. I figured she would hit on one of the broke cowboys down at the saloon and bribe him with some free booze until he delivered the goods and scratched her itch the old-fashioned way from behind with her face buried in the pillow to muffle her screams.I have to admit the entire affair made me a bit jealous, but I knew it was all my fault and there was nothing I could do about it, unless I got some miracle cure that stopped my coughing and eliminated the signs of things getting far worse with the damn bloody hankies.When everything else failed, I used my.
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