Mozart’s music changes to Beethoven, and I consider stretching more heartily during my soft music alarm.
My toe reaches out under the sheets, leg muscles tight but loosening. Ahhhh.
ACK! What did my toe just hit?
I jump out of bed, heart hammering along with Beethoven’s 5th, clutching my nightgown to my chest.
Except, I ‘m wearing no nightgown. I peer down at my peachy skin and groan. I’m as naked as a plucked chicken. Melissa K. Myers, I hiss to myself, what did you do last night?
My mind races backwards. I spent a lazy early evening volunteering at the Thrift Shop until an astoundingly beautiful woman rushed in, plunked down a bag of clothes, grabbed a charity tax form, and raced out. Joe, the other helper (and truth be told the only reason I volunteer there) gave a low wolf whistle.
“She’s trouble,” I grumbled, grabbing the woman’s bag, hastily hanging the used dresses that had been folded inside carelessly. Unsurprisingly, the clothes were sleek and sexy and two sizes too small for most women. But at the bottom of the pile sat a pair of size 8 shoes – as red as cherries with high heels as wicked as the devil.
Then I remembered another woman who had arrived earlier in the evening. She’d caught my attention with her wavy gray hair, intense green eyes, and colorful long peasant skirt. She’d picked up a pair of men’s loafers and mumbled loudly enough for me to hear:
“The magic is here. Whosoever walks in the shoes of another, shall follow the same road.”
She paid $10 for the well-used shoes and left.
So later, while Joe helped an elderly gent look for an overcoat, I replaced my boring black flats with the red hot heels.
I enjoyed that one, I now recall. And the next one. And the next. Then…
I slap my hand over my mouth.
No . . . I didn’t.
I tiptoe over to the bathroom and grab my robe. Stare at my pale face and wide blue eyes. Shit Shit SHIT.
I tiptoe back to my bed, lumpy with sheets, blanket, four pillows, and…
Men’s sneakers by the other side of the bed. Next to my – well, not my – sexy red heels.
I creep to the living room, where I spy a jacket and a wallet.
No no NO!
I grab the wallet and pull out the driver’s license.
No! I want Joe on my own terms, not another’s.
But then I return to the bedroom and sneak back under the sheets.
Perhaps I’ll keep these Thrift Shop shoes, after all.
Thanks to Pixabay for images.