The Shoes Made Me Do It

So... walking through my house today I found a pair of shoes that I haven't worn in ages. They are kick-ass black patent, with gold buckles gracing the open toes. Best of all? Four inch heels. When I stand in these things, it's like I already rule the whole world (as opposed to only NH, Vermont, and Half of South Dakota).

But they looked so sad. I could feel them staring at me accusingly, as though saying,

"Verge... You don't love us anymore. You never take us ANYWHERE."

I felt so guilty and ashamed. I had totally neglected those magnificent shoes. Surely they were deserving of better treatment from me. Neglect is not pretty, especially when you love someone/something.

So I decided that it was time to rectify this situation.

I got dressed up for a night (or rather, late afternoon) on the town. An hour later, there I was... Hair done, perfume lightly spritzed, pink lipstick applied, little black dress donned, and clad in those badass shoes. I even went the extra step and pulled out my black nylons with the seams that run up the back of the legs. I felt pretty good.

The next question was... Where do I go?

I settled on taking the shoes out to a nice dinner. Shimmying out to my car, I headed to Nonni's. It's an Italian restaurant located on scenic main street of Smallborotonville. It's a pretty decent place, dimly lit, with probably the best food you can get in this rural part of the great state of New Nowhereton. Most importantly of all, they make halfway decent Tiramisu, which I fell totally in lust with when I went to Paris four years ago. (No seriously, I really did go to Paris. Hard to believe, but true).

So when I entered this fine establishment, I sauntered in like a cat, and told the hostess that I would really like to sit at a table near the window, if it wasn't in use or reserved. She looked a bit lost for an instant, and then said,

"Wil you be waiting for someone?"

For a moment I was a bit lost. I could feel my brows draw together in confusion. I replied, "Um, no."

And apparently, she saw something crazy in my eyes, because she backed a step away and said, "Uh, right this way."

After seating me and informing me that my "server" would be right out, she left me in a large booth where I could see the foot and car traffic outside. I crossed my legs, admired my shoes for another moment, and then just enjoyed the atmosphere and sense of freedom. For a few minutes I spaced out, and thought how wonderful it felt to be able to just do whatever I wanted on a Sunday in June.

You see, for a long time I was accustomed to having no freedom at all... a very sheltered childhood turned into an early marriage that doesn't bear dwelling on (Hell, sometimes I even forget that I was once married). So being free, even after several years (seven to be exact), still feels pretty good.

Sometime later a uniformed gentleman appeared and offered to take my order. Once again, I was asked,

"Are you expecting someone? Should I put bring another water?"

Again I was a tad flabbergasted. I mean... was there something wrong with me being there alone? Was this, like, couple's night or something? If so, they really should have put a sign in the window, something like,

"No shirt, no shoes, no DATE, no service."

I sighed. I explained once again that NO, I was not anticipating a date, I simply wanted a really expensive dessert, and I felt like getting dressed up to go get it.

Perhaps I was too forceful. This venerable gentleman flew swiftly away on winged feet.

So there I was, dressed up and feeling good... and it seemed that the world was conspiring to make me feel like crap for being alone.

And then... The gods smiled on me.

In walked my former self.

Okay, so it wasn't actually me... but seriously, this woman could have been me seven years ago. She was young, and the spark of life was still newly minted on her face. But I could also see wear there... And it hurt even my non-existent heart a little bit. She came in with a man, clearly at least ten years older than she. While they waited to be seated, he slung his arm over her shoulders in a posture of ownership that was unmistakeable for anything but the territorial move it was. In fact, I was a little surprised that he didn't just whip out his dick and piss on her. It was pathetic.

He didn't ask for a table. He demanded one. At the top of his voice.

When the hostess turned to lead them to a table, he nearly shoved her out of the way when she didn't move fast enough for him. Once at the table, he didn't wait for his companion, but grabbed a chair as though it had done something to offend him, and dragged it, kicking and screaming, from under the table before he settled it beneath him.

I tried not to stare, but my eyes continued to be drawn toward the pair. After a few minutes, I did look away, and was rewarded with a very clear view of the two reflected in the plate glass of the window I sat by.

I settled down, somewhat uncomfortably, to watch the show.

I'm telling you... From the moment I saw this guy... I recognized him. Well, not HIM specifically, but if the girl was me, then the guy was definitely...

Let's just say, his manner was familiar.

When their server arrived, (this one was an attractive female) he hit on her.

Trust me, I can't make this shit up.

Every time she came to the table, he called her "Sweetheart." Interestingly, he never seemed to use any such endearment when talking to his tablemate. In fact, all through dinner, he didn't speak her name even once. Apparently, she was of such insignificance that she didn't even merit the acknowledgment of a name, let alone any term of affection.

All through their meal, she attempted to make conversation, and she had some charming and amusing things to say. In fact, she even made me laugh a couple of times, but of course, being a seasoned eavesdropper, I quickly turned my giggles into polite coughs, and covered my mouth with my napkin.

Every attempt she made was met with either derision or condescension. When she made fun of the salt and pepper shakers, he made a snarky comment about how it was great to be married to someone who was "so easily amused." When she said that she loved her entree, he snorted and spoke through a mouthful of veal, saying, "Are you kidding? This food is shit." What a fucking charmer he was.

I think he sprayed more food on her than anything else, given how disgustingly he ate.

But saddest of all, at least to me, was that the woman--well, girl, really--seemed so genuinely happy to be out having dinner with this pathetic troll.

Thank goodness I have a social filter... Or I might have walked over and dumped my Diet Coke over his head... and then spat a few lemon seeds in his face for good measure.

However, I did restrain myself.

Well, I lingered over my dinner and my Tiramisu, and calmed my ire by telling myself that this was exactly like watching Jerry Springer, or a car wreck... It's horrible, but you just can't look away.

Eventually I worked my way through a delicious chicken marsala and an equally tempting dish of the beloved dessert. All was right in my tiny little world. 

When I got up to leave, it was at almost the same time as the Troll and the Happy Clueless Princess. On my way out the door, I was only a step or so behind them.

Just as they were about to walk out the door, the Happy Clueless Princess said that she needed to use the ladies room, and brushed past me. I slowed so that I wouldn't accidentally step on her. I paused, and then I attempted to exit. Unfortunately the doorway was half blocked by the Troll.

Did I mention that he was a muscle-head? Oh yea. Ladies, watch out! If he was only half as hot as he considered himself to be, he would have been awarded his own television show, probably on the topic of how far one can kick a puppy while wearing steel-toed boots. He made me feel sick inside, as though there was a nest of rabid rats living in my stomach and fighting each other to see who could be first to eat their way out of my intestines. (Try to sleep with that image in your head boys and girls).

As I brushed past him, he glanced down at me. Actually, that's not quite accurate. He actually leered down the front of my dress, which was easy enough given that he was easily a foot taller than me. I was a little afraid that I would have to wipe some of his DNA off my neck, as he seemed in danger of drooling on me.

He cocked a smoldering eyebrow at me and actually said, "Hey baby--lookin' good."

Uhh.. He HAD to be brain-damaged. I mean, really. Ick.

Oh, but that's not the worst. Not by a long shot.

As I looked away and rushed past him, completely unresponsive to his suave line, he "accidentally" lurched a bit closer, and for an instant that will now haunt my nightmares on a regular basis, his hand was actually placed squarely on my black velvet clad ass.

Oh yeah. He did it.

Unbefuckinglievable.

All I could think was, "Oh no you DIDN'T!"

I was shocked and appalled.

Now, I don't want you to get the wrong idea. I greatly enjoy the companionship of the opposite sex, and I am no prude. But whilst I would have absolutely no problem having my posterior patted in certain situations... This was NOT one of them.

And under absolutely NO circumstances would he have been my companion of choice.

In fact, if the rest of the human population died in the coming zombie apocalypse, and his were the very last XY chromosomes on the face of this planet, I'd gather my father's Binelli shotgun lovingly to my chest and cheerfully paint the wall with the contents of my skull in a festive and Pollock-esque manner.

For once in my life, I actually responded without over-thinking. Since he felt within his rights to touch my person without permission, I figured that he deserved whatever he got, and I re-paid him by touching him in return.

Of course, by "touching" I mean that I stepped directly on his foot... Four inch heel and all. Sadly, he was wearing (of course) thick boots, so I doubt I did any lasting damage.

He let out a yelp and backed up, muttering, "Friggin' humorless whore."

Which just goes to show... Some people have no sense of humor at all.

"Oops, my bad." I mumbled, and serenely sauntered away, with a swing in my hips and a song in my heart.

As I did, I reflected on a saying that a very close friend of mine often makes whenever I am depressed about the lack of a current love interest of my own...(Thanks DopeHat).

"Verge... It's better to walk alone than to walk in bad company."

That woman is as wise as Yoda, and as kick-ass as, well... Kick Ass.

Lastly,

I looked down at my amazingly kick ass shoes, listened to the jaunty click they made with each step, and I smiled.

It's good to be Queen.

And someday... there will be a King.

I have spoken.