Let me tell you about my shoes.
One was named Erson and the other, Annalouisa. They were coated all over with brown fur — dense and a little bit spongey, like forest moss — though Annalouisa got bleached blonde if you left her in the sun too long. Their backs formed pockets just big enough for my feet, and their rumps curled upward ever so slightly, so my heels wouldn’t slip out. They had six sturdy legs each, with furry webbed feet on the ends like little bat wings.
Annalouisa always slept nestled in the small of my back, but Erson slept in the bowl of water I kept for him on my nightstand. I had never had a shoe that did that before. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, we heard the soft gurgling of him breathing bubbles through his nose, like one of those ornamental fountains you fill with smooth stones and plug in. I would shift from my side to my stomach, and Annalouisa would clamber up the fabric of my nightshirt and resume her position in the dip of my spine.
They would eat almost anything as they walked me around, or as I walked them. Roly-polies and earthworms, hot dog buns cast to the sidewalk and sometimes cigarette butts. They would take little shoe-licks of already-chewed gum wads, still a little bit fragrant but ultimately tasteless. They loved when we walked through parks. Sometimes I would take them off and sit in the grass and watch them stuff their faces with clover flowers.
I always wondered if there was something going on between those two. Sometimes I wished that my apartment was filled with boisterous little shoe babies, tripping all over their flipper feet and catching trinkets in their back pockets. But it was only ever me and Erson and Annalouisa, so I guess it was just platonic.
Even when they are old and can no longer hold me up, I will keep them with me. I know people who set their shoes free and hope they will be able to survive in the wild, but usually they’re caught by trappers who make their livings selling mismatched strays as skate-rink rentals. And what if Erson fell asleep in a swimming pool and drowned? No, they will stay with me. When I come home each day I will take off my new shoes — whoever they may be — and I will scoop up Erson and Annalouisa too. I will gather all of them around me, and I’ll feed them seedless grapes and globs of Skippy peanut butter, which they will lick straight off my fingers.
