Boots and nothing at all

The boots stood there, leaning haphazardly against the garbage can; their beauty long faded, the leather cracked, the material worn thin near the toes and the heels. The dim light produced from the nearby lamp made the boots look forlorn in the almost empty apartment. She stared at them, her head cocked a bit to the side.

She had been ready for bed: her make-up washed off, her teeth brushed, her dress and heels replaced with a worn tank top and underwear. The linoleum she was standing on desperately needed a scrubbing and her bare feet stuck to the floor in this heat. She thought about this—about scrubbing the floor—and she thought about the boots in front of her. Her hands were now on her hips and she shifted her weight slightly.

She shook her head as if in defiance to some inner question and grabbed the boots from beside the garbage to shove them onto her feet. She walked the short distance across the apartment to where her grandma’s ornate full length mirror stood on its frame and stared into it. She turned this way and that way, staring intently at her reflection. Finally, she rifled through the mess of clothes on the couch and produced a gray knee length skirt. She slipped this on and fastened it high around her waist. Tucking the tank top in and grabbing her keys from the kitchen counter, she quietly slipped out the front door and into the night air. The heels of her boots sounded pleasantly against the sidewalk.