Sole desire

The boots are not yours. You know every pair in this closet — the gray flats, the scuffed sneakers, the one pair of heels you wore to a wedding and never again. These are new: black leather, knee-high, a heel that looks like a decision rather than a shoe. A cream-colored card is tucked inside one, handwriting too elegant to be printed.

"Wear me once and become what you truly want." You check the door. Locked. You check the window. Latched. You are alone with them and they seem aware of it.

You tell yourself to throw them out. You even pick them up — they're heavier than they should be, warm, like something recently alive. Instead of the trash chute, your feet carry you back to the closet, and you stand there holding them, feeling your pulse in your thumbs. The morning you were supposed to have — bus at 7:40, cubicle, leftovers — is dissolving, and you notice you don't mind as much as you should.

Because here is the question the note has already asked, quietly, while you weren't ready: what do you truly want? Not the safe answer. The drawer answer. The one you don't say at parties, barely say to yourself. The boots are waiting, and the terrible thing — the wonderful thing — is that you can feel them waiting, like a held breath.