The Heels are Hiding

The Heels Are Hiding

A short story by Marian Yesufu

These quotes remain nameless to protect the brave heels and sneakers that chose to go on the record.

“Shh—she’s coming. Don’t let her know we’re here.”

“Hey! Hold your breath.”

“I am trying to hold my breath. She’s a monster. She’s insane.”

“…She’s a little adorable.”

“She’s insane. You know it. For a five-year-old, she does know how to wear us.”

“Ha! Speak for yourself. Last time she walked in me, she broke my heel. Broke. My. Heel.”

“Last time she walked around in my heels, I cried for seven days—crying that Marian would look down and notice… that she’d say, ‘Oh my God. My favorite heels need to go to a repair shop.’ Oh no. She sat in these heels at work, she went to salsa night in these same heels. Did she ask, ‘How come there’s a little ripped strap?’ Did she think about her toddler?”

“Is a five-year-old a toddler?”

“I wouldn’t call a five-year-old a toddler.”

“That’s not the point! The point is: her toddler destroyed the strap, which made Marian’s feet hurt the entire night. Did she repair me? No. And that is why I am under these clothes, under this closet, hopefully never to be found again.”

“Well, you’re being a little dramatic.”

“Am I? Oh? And when was the last time Marian wore you?”

“…Let’s not talk about it.”

“You all know us tennis shoes—Marian doesn’t wear me unless she’s going to the gym. And Marian only goes to the gym when she’s horny.”

“Or right after her period.”

“Exactly. And when does that happen? Once a month. Precisely. So she won’t be looking for me until one, two, three… fifteen days. So leave me out of it.”

“Okay, well then in fifteen days, let’s hope her toddler never finds you and separates your—”

“Don’t you dare say it.”

“—and separates your—”

“Don’t!”

“—your shoestrings.”

“Oh, now you’re playing dirty.”

“It was a dark, sad night—”

“Really? We’re just gonna start right in?”

“Shh. It was a dark, rainy, silent night. Everyone was watching a movie. No one paid attention to the toddler because they assumed she was asleep, as she should have been at 8:30 p.m. Was she asleep? No. Sadly, she was not.

“She found me. I was placed quaintly right next to Marian’s gym clothes for the next morning. Marian had been on top of it—going to the gym every night, every morning, twelfth day, twelfth night. I was right there beside the pink sports bra and the pink stretch pants—the ones that make Marian’s ass look like fine wine.”

“Exactly.”

“She took my strings. She pulled one out with not a care in the world—ripping and pulling and shredding. And she didn’t even have real scissors.”

“Oh, don’t bring up the scissors.”

“Oh, I’m bringing up the scissors. She had those fake scissors. And honestly, if they’d been real scissors? I don’t know what I would’ve done.”

“Yeah yeah, we know. You’d be a goner.”

“Exactly. So she took the one string, gnawed it with her one slobbery mouth and tooth, and finished the job with those fake scissors. If Marian hadn’t come in to check, I don’t know where I’d be.”

“You’d be a goner. Call it what it is.”

“Exactly. That cute little five-year-old is a demon. A demon never to be messed with. I wouldn’t ever face her in battle.”

“Oh, please. You’ve faced her in many battles.”

“Exactly. And so, for all you new shoes sitting here, we don’t tell this as a cautionary tale. We tell it as a current tale. If you see her coming, you run. You hide under a sweaty gym cloth. You wrap yourself in one of Marian’s yarn scarves. And you pray that her tiny, grisly hands never touch your shoe-self.”

“You’re welcome.”

Sincerely,

The heel coalition of Marian’s Closet