On the Other Foot
by Jeff Gard
So, it's quarter to closing at Royals Shoe Emporium, and this orange Mustang sweeps into the parking lot, scattering dead leaves and field mice. The car's subwoofers toss a bass line carelessly at our window, and our mannequins tremble with every slap and thump. I can't hear all the words, just enough to know someone wants to smack his ho.
Parked across two empty spots, the doors pop open and out steps Prince Charming. I won't tell you his real name. Frankly, I'm more than a little embarrassed that I still say it aloud in my sleep.
Ana and Zella smoke joints in the stockroom. Verna wilts across the front counter, propped up by a cash register and the last remains of a latte. We play rock-paper-scissors with our eyes. I lose.
"Your customer." Verna yawns.
Prince Charming strolls down the runway between his Mustang and our doors, his best friend, Stewart, floating two paces behind on the fumes of his greatness. Even I must admit Prince Charming looks good in chinos and a linen shirt. I wish I could be that cable-knit sweater clinging to his collarbone.
His reappearance in my life reminds me of that boy from seven years ago, the one in the tuxedo who kept glancing at his shoes so he wouldn't step on my feet. I can still feel his warm, eager hands on my hips, his fingers testing the Chiffon fabric. My dress was made from daydreams and speculation, beads of steam gathered on a bathroom mirror.
A lot has changed since then. I no longer dye my hair blond or wear blue contacts. I've given up on the compulsion to shave, bleach, pluck, and starve myself into perfection.
My breath catches as he flings open the door. Will he recognize me? Will he ask me how I've been? Will he ask me when my shift ends?
Instead, he doesn't make eye contact. He thumbs his phone.
"Suede Bluchers," he says.
"What size?"
"Whatever fits."
I lead him into the labyrinth of boxes and knee-high mirrors. He sits on a padded bench, as I stoop to remove his Espadrilles. There is no sign of wear or tear on the soles, not a single pebble caught in the tread.
My fingers tremble as I slide his perfect foot onto a metal scale and adjust a few knobs. I memorize his numbers. Most of his qualities can be converted to numbers: waist circumference, inseam, weight, height, IQ, GPA, financial worth, hotness. I cast this knowledge into the furnace of regret that fuels my fantasies, but songbirds pluck the digits from the ashes.
Does he still think of that night, of how we were thrown improbably together as King and Queen for three glorious hours? Does he remember how I fled the dance floor, equally afraid of my parent's curfew and his attention? Does he keep his plastic crown in a shoebox on the top shelf of his closet? That's where I hid my tiara, but even buried in scrapbooks and old sweaters, it shines brilliantly behind a closed door. Like its counterpart--the dress stuffed under my bed--its memory emerges every homecoming.
