Ted (merovingian) wrote,
Ted
merovingian

"I could wear one fabulous shoe," she said.

And oh, she did. I can't really describe the shoe to you, at least not in linear terms. I could liken it to skyscrapers, or the scent of freshly cut grass, or the confusion in waking up in fresh linens in an unfamiliar house. I could tell you that was the color of pearls, except when it wasn't, or I could tell you that it was the deepest black, with a thousand and one purple stars shining forth bright enough to be light, and both would be equally true. I could tell you that when she walked on that shoe, it felt like time were flowing backward. I could hint at the way it changed the weather, the stock market and the Mandelbrot set as she walked by, or I could suggest the way that, looking at one's own shoes in comparison, one gets a sense of deep belly thirst that cannot be satisfied.

But I could not, properly, describe that one fabulous shoe in any meaningful terms. I couldn't name the size, or the cut, or the texture of the heel, because that fabulous shoe would defy names for the things. If I tried to stick some number to the shoe's size, I fear that the set of integers may collapse as it tried so bravely, and failed so disastrously, to wrap itself around the dimensions of that one fabulous shoe.

I can tell you, though, that there was, without a doubt, only one such shoe, because she was wearing one of those new boot casts on her other broken foot, and I do hope that foot heals soon, because perhaps this world is not yet ready for that one shoe.

That one fabulous, fabulous shoe.
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