Then she grabbed a pair of strappy hooker shoes and said, “Is it even possible to walk in these?
I mean, I would just die—” and then stopped short, looking at me as if to say I’m sorry, as if it were a crime to mention death to the dying.
“You should try them on,” Kaitlyn continued, trying to paper over the awkwardness. “I’d sooner die,” I assured her.
I ended up just picking out some flip-flops so that I could have something to buy,
and then I sat down on one of the benches opposite a bank of shoes and watched Kaitlyn snake her way through the aisles,
shopping with the kind of intensity and focus that one usually associates with professional chess.
I kind of wanted to take out Midnight Dawns and read for a while, but I knew that’d be rude, so I just watched Kaitlyn.
Occasionally she’d circle back to me clutching some closed-toe prey and say, “This?” and I would try to make an intelligent comment about the shoe,
and then finally she bought three pairs and I bought my flip-flops and then as we exited she said, “Anthropologie?”
“I should head home actually,” I said. “I’m kinda tired.” “Sure, of course,” she said.
“I have to see you more often, darling.” She placed her hands on my shoulders, kissed me on both cheeks, and marched off, her narrow hips swishing.
I didn’t go home, though. I’d told Mom to pick me up at six,
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