We danced our first waltz together.
We interviewed for two jobs — and got them both.
We traipsed through clubs and dungeons, where we did bad things to good (and bad) men.
We dressed in our first “Western” costume.
We haunted the halls of Disney for six years.
We went to numerous writing conventions and met people from all over the world.
My tears soaked you when that guy broke my heart in an email. I remember reaching down to wipe you with my thumb, and then crying harder.
We graced several long skirts, innumerable jeans, and even a pair of lamb skin pants. You were my fashion saviors.
But Isaac can no longer heal you — at least, not for more money than I can afford. You’re too old, your soles too broken. I never cared if your square toes were not in style or your heels were too chunky for other people’s tastes. You were my fashion. My look. You helped make me beautiful, tall and sexy for 15 years. That’s a long, intimate friendship. Most of all, you kept my weak ankles strong, never hurt my problematic feet, and never let me fall. I’m going to miss you terribly.
And thanks, Nine West.