tale no. one
It wasn't the fact that her lovely canary yellow high heels with orange trim were biting into her feet (specifically, the right pinkie toe and the left big one) that annoyed Chloe. It was the fact that they were slowing her down as she hurriedly walked (or attempted to jog, at times), to meet Ryan. She was late, as usual, but herein lay the irony. It was Ryan's fault she was wearing these treacherous shoes. He always complained when she wore her Asics or her eBay-acquired vintage Hush Puppies. He told her he liked her better when she wore high heels. And also when she looked skinnier than she usually does. Back to the shoes. He complained so much she finally gave in and wore high heels. But only to meet him.
And so here she was, now finally past 2nd Street, now past 3rd, walking, then proceeding to a slow jog, then walking and jogging again, the kind of jog where you feel and look ridiculous because you are wearing yellow high heels and trying to run. It doesn't ever feel or look like it does in the movies or in the tv commericals, and Chloe always dreads having to do so. Now walking, now doing the absurd jog, in her canary yellow heels with orange trim.
"They look like what an Italian woman in the 1960s would wear," said Ryan excitedly when they bought them together at Edith Machinist vintage store on Rivington. Not that she didn't like them, too, just not on her feet while trying to walk 15 blocks and also being late and also being even later because of them. She would be late to meet him. And it would be his fault.
