LJ Idol: Week Eight: First World Problem
Halfway down the block I realized that I was still wearing his shoes. They flapped around my feet like a pair of dying fish and I wanted a frying pan to lay them into, so I could hear them sizzle.
I couldn’t very well go back. (“Hey! I know we just broke up, but here are your shoes. Thought we’d get the awkward exchanging of stuff period over with, and by the way, you’re still a shithead.”) I certainly wasn’t walking the three miles to my house barefoot, either.
They were slippers, not even real shoes. I had always disliked them; they smelled like ripe bananas and were a dentist’s office green. Chemical. When I opened my front door, I tossed them inside on top of a trash bag. I’d chuck them out in the morning, I decided. For now, a glass of vodka with lime juice seemed like a very good idea.
Later that night, I heard an odd ripping noise. Putting down my bottle (after three drinks, I’d said, ”screw the glass”), I wandered into the front hall, blinked, and started to gasp with laughter. “Phoenix!” I moaned. “Bad... I mean... good dog?”
My huge black Newfoundland puppy grinned up at me, bits of green cloth in her mouth and fluff littering the floor. She gave the remains of the slippers another fond bite, growling and rolling around on the pink tile. I giggled at her some more, then left her to curl up in bed.
The next morning, I gathered up what had once been ugly green slippers from the bathroom tile, underneath the sink, and behind the toilet. After putting the fluff, the drool-encased felt and scuffed soles into a cardboard box, I lovingly taped it up and wrote his address on the front. I could just imagine his face as he opened the flaps and saw the mess of what lay within. It was his problem now, not mine.
I couldn’t very well go back. (“Hey! I know we just broke up, but here are your shoes. Thought we’d get the awkward exchanging of stuff period over with, and by the way, you’re still a shithead.”) I certainly wasn’t walking the three miles to my house barefoot, either.
They were slippers, not even real shoes. I had always disliked them; they smelled like ripe bananas and were a dentist’s office green. Chemical. When I opened my front door, I tossed them inside on top of a trash bag. I’d chuck them out in the morning, I decided. For now, a glass of vodka with lime juice seemed like a very good idea.
Later that night, I heard an odd ripping noise. Putting down my bottle (after three drinks, I’d said, ”screw the glass”), I wandered into the front hall, blinked, and started to gasp with laughter. “Phoenix!” I moaned. “Bad... I mean... good dog?”
My huge black Newfoundland puppy grinned up at me, bits of green cloth in her mouth and fluff littering the floor. She gave the remains of the slippers another fond bite, growling and rolling around on the pink tile. I giggled at her some more, then left her to curl up in bed.
The next morning, I gathered up what had once been ugly green slippers from the bathroom tile, underneath the sink, and behind the toilet. After putting the fluff, the drool-encased felt and scuffed soles into a cardboard box, I lovingly taped it up and wrote his address on the front. I could just imagine his face as he opened the flaps and saw the mess of what lay within. It was his problem now, not mine.