Shoe maniac

Anne collects shoes like some women collect lovers. She has a favorite boutique, small and quiet, where the newest heels always seem meant for her. But the real draw is the girl behind the counter. Brunette. Young. The way she kneels to slide a shoe onto Anne’s foot makes something tighten low in her belly. Today she lingers after the shop closes. The lights are low. The brunette has already locked the door. She comes back with a pair of strappy sandals, kneels between Anne’s thighs again, and this time her fingertips drift higher than the ankle. Anne watches the slow drag of those fingers up her calf. No one speaks. The air feels thick. When the brunette finally looks up, her eyes are dark and certain. Anne spreads her knees wider on the little velvet stool. The shoes stay on.