Back to the Grindstone

I'd actually managed to convince myself that I'd missed this. After spending the long winter months in the closet, being ignored I'd kid myself that things would be better once she wore me again. After so long of waiting, having to watch as she chose warmer boots over me, I was actually glad when she looked down at me and picked me up, finally deciding it was warm enough out to wear me again.

The second her foot touched my insole, it all came flooding back. The stale taste of her toes reminded me of the hell I endured underneath them. It was as fresh as it was when she first put me on six months ago. The woman was someone I'd met in a bar and hooked up with. I'd lost her number and didn't bother to chase it up. I figured she'd get over it. As my body transformed into a bright pink ballet flat I knew better.

I'm not even sure she remembers me that well, she didn't give me a second glance when it was too cold to wear me. Perhaps she'd forgotten about me. I'm not sure how she could do that, but I'm also not sure she managed to do this to me in the first place.

I was granted a reprieve from her mighty foot as she lifted it out of me and stroked me gently with the tip of her toes. She often did this when she was having a conversation with someone. I looked around and recognised the same old place of work that I'd grown accustomed to before the winter. As her foot pressed into me once more, I realised that my closet time was a long holiday. Now it was back to the grindstone