I’ve noticed your pinkish-purple flats. I’ve noticed them because I like shoes, but also because it’s hard for me to look a pretty girl in the eye. You wear them almost every day, at least every day I happen upon you, even though they don’t always match what you’re wearing. Even though I never notice what you’re wearing, I don’t imagine they match much.
Either these are your favorite shoes, or you simply can’t afford a new pair for work. Or perhaps you don’t concern yourself with trivial things like shoes, outside of their most practical usages. Or maybe you just want to appear civilized like the rest of us, not like some pregnant hillbilly standing barefoot in a gravel driveway, but in reality, you loathe shoes.
But you probably like them. Because ordinary people are not drawn to shoes of a purple hue. And, quite possibly, save your soft spoken hellos and heavy lash glances that I steal shyly, this is precisely why am I suddenly drawn to you. This is also why my head ducks to see each new set of feet that come into the restroom from inside my protective stall. And I sit and obsess over ways to tell you my name and ask yours as casually as possible. And hope that maybe, if nothing else, I can catch a solid look at the color of your eyes.