ABSTRACT
The sight of them gives me pause. I linger by the window as they pose there, saucy. I remark when I see them on actual feet. Always. The ones who wear red shoes seem more jubilant than the rest of us loafing along in our Stride Rites or, as with a recent purchase of mine, our square-toed, thick-heeled Nine Wests. It took me a month or more before I felt the square-toed look was me. When I finally dared, I found the clod of my feet gave a sense of power. I walked differently, took longer strides. But red shoes? Patent leather red shoes? Red shoes with sparkles, as with Dorothy on her yellow brick road? The whimsy intrigues me.
