the only sound echoing through the hallway is the clicking of my own shoes. it’s me, i’m the person with the clicking shoes, smaller people pass me and know to get quiet when my adult shoes come clicking through, i look down at the little girl’s feet as she passes me, she is wearing the same pair of grey tom’s i wore everyday before this fall and i am beyond envious, i would buy her snacks in the vending machine everyday until christmas if we could just switch shoes. my thoughts constantly drift to the weekend, to different shoes, north beach. your suitcase or my duffle bag, analyzing summer movies and thunderstorms. your car my car your purse (satchel) my bookbag. transit, macon, exit 186, shopping malls and floors, atlanta at night. your drink with three limes and that look you give me when you’re having a heart to heart with your sister.
i should really buy some fancy shoes that don’t click.
