30 Days 30 Stories Installment 10, Dancing Shoes

There was once a woman who bought a beautiful pair of dancing shoes. It was a whim, really. She was walking by a store, she had been given money for her birthday, and she wanted them very badly. They were on sale, and they were so very very beautiful. One might say they lured her in, but that would be giving the dancing shoes a mind of their own - and as everyone knows, this isn't really possible.

She bought them, and she put them in her closet, and she looked at them. Every time she dressed for work, or undressed and put on her lounging clothes; every time she put away her folded laundry she looked at them and sighed. But she was a lonely woman, and she never did take them out for a spin. She looked and admired, but she never danced in them.

Well, it was a late Friday night. The city was hopping. Everywhere, revelers made reveling noises with other noisy revelers and reveled the night away. The dancing shoes were safely in the closet, the woman was on her couch, asleep over a book of recipes. She didn't cook. The dancing shoes did something no dancing shoes should do - they got up, they walked out the closet door, and they headed outside through the open window. They were red-sparkled tango shoes, all straps, and sexy as hell. They made their way out, they made their way to the nearest dance floor (about 11 blocks away) and they quietly made their way inside. Noone believed it when they saw them moving, and if seen they would immediately stop. They went to the dance floor, they waited by the purse rack and the shoe-changing benches, and soon - very soon - a woman surreptitiously put them on. They were magic. They made her dance like never before. She danced and danced, but when she took them off to change into her other shoes again, they left. They made their way, happily, back to the apartment of their lonely owner, and placed themselves quietly, but noticeably by her bed. When she woke up on Saturday there they were, shiny and almost-new, with just a few scuffs.

She looked at them. She had not left them there. Maybe tonight she would take them out for a spin. But when night came, they found her, all over again, hunched in front of the television, looking for all her might like she was trying to block out the noise of a partying city. They made a mad little hop and when she wasn't looking headed for the door.

They ran into the same woman again. Young, lovely. She wore them, she danced in them. They both enjoyed themselves immensely. They met every weekend - she found them, she wore them, but when she turned to put them in her bag to try to take them home, they would slip away, back to the lonely apartment. They loved the girl, but they wanted the woman to have some fun.

But she was stubborn, the lonely woman, and set in her ways. It would take more than a pair of shoes to get her out. She tried them on one day (it was a Thursday), she sighed, she modeled them. Had she bought them scuffed like that? Was that the reason they were on sale? She couldn't tell. She sighed again, and put them neatly back in her closet. But that day, she struck up a conversation with a man at work. Did he like to dance? She asked. Yes, he did on occasion.

Another month of weekends passed. The shoes found another girl. She liked to salsa. She had a partner who usually danced with her. Together they made beautiful moves. But every night, the shoes went home to their lonely owner.

After about half a year of this, the shoes were getting beat. Their spangles had gone, their lustre wasn't as it used to be; they were worn, they were content. They had danced until they could dance no more. But the woman brought them out of the closet, and gave them a look. That day at the office, the man had brought her a daisy from a vendor. He had put it on her desk, and when she found it told her it reminded him of her, so he thought he would get it for her. It had been offhand, but it had reminded her of her shoes. They looked spangly and lovely still. Perhaps she would go out dancing this weekend.

A few months later, and the shoes were very tired. Every weekend a different girl, every girl a different partner. They had been stubbed and danced and twirled to their hearts' content. They still wanted to be on the feet of their owner, but having despaired of this, they had enjoyed themselves. They were spangle-less, they were scuffed. They settled themselves in the closet, exhausted.

But the woman had a date. She had finally decided to go on a date. And so she looked through her closet, and forgetfully, came upon the pair of shoes. "Oh!" she cried, quietly. She didn't remember them looking so old. She couldn't possibly wear them now. And so she put them back in the back of the closet, and that day bought a really quite elegant pair of sensible heels. The dancing shoes just relaxed their worn straps slightly, drooping. They had enjoyed every step; they were really too tired to go out anyway. They snuggled back into an old pair of leather boots. They would just rest here, until the dust and the cobwebs covered them in sleep.