We discovered the lonely, white, patent leather pump in the box at the antique store, though we some how doubted that it was truly an antique as is the problem with inexpensive antique stores. It was something still in style, if only it still had its mate. Its white surface had been marred by a few scratches and smudges, and the bow on the heel hung precariously by a few remaining threads. There was a line from the open peep toe to the top edge of the foot where it had been warped. It was the only one of its size in the box, which we had thought to all once belong to the same woman. We wondered where it had been, for surely this shoe had a story:

The details of my birth are rather dreary, though perhaps more interesting than many common shoes. I was made in Italy by a cobbler and stamped with the name of a rather well known designer, then was introduced to my mate, who would become my constant companion for most of our lives. We were wrapped with a white tissue paper and packed into a box for a several weeks, during which we were kept mostly in the darkness of our simple and cramped abode.

One day, we heard a ripping sound and shortly after, the lid of our box was lifted away and we saw a store lit by florescent light. My mate and I had a sticker affixed to our soles and were carefully placed on a table, surrounded by various other couples with stamps of the same brand on them Most of them were sorely lacking in the looks department, and I would often whisper to my mate that we were the best looking pair on the table. We were white peep-toes with a black trim, a small black bow on the heel and another on the front, rather classy. Some of the other pairs were distasteful pumps, which came in both a noxious teal and dry purple, disgraceful strappy platforms, which were red or black and studded with either gold or silver, and worst of all, a pair of leopard print wedges, which were also available in zebra. Thankfully, my mate and I were stationed beside a pair of ballet flats with a color scheme the exact opposite of ours, black with white trim. They were the only couple I found amicable on that table.

When the store opened every morning, women wove around the displays and lifted us off the table to slip their feet into us. Since my mate and I were the most attractive pair, I was tried on far more often than the platforms and the wedges and even the ballet flats. I was never the shoe sold, of course, being for display only. The serious customers would sweep up either my mate or me and wave one of us at a sales associate. I saw many of my brethren come out of the back room and be whisked away in a shopping bag. It was disheartening to think that I was doomed to sit upon the table for the rest of my career.

Fortunately, after a few months, I was placed on the sale rack, and my mate was put into the back room to wait for an eager customer. It was horribly shameful to sit there amongst all the other ugly sandals and pumps but I only had a few days to wait. I was picked up on the third day by a woman and her friend. She proudly showed me to her friend, who confessed to coveting my style for months, but she had already spent an obscene amount of money on white pumps by a rival brand. At this point, her friend reminded her that she was rich and I was on sale. The rich girl gave me a try and then inquired after my mate. Once she had both of us, she gave us a test walk through the shoe department. Her feet were a decent fit, unlike many of the people who had picked me up from the table and squeezed their too-large feet inside me. They were also rather soft feet, for she was rich and had obviously had a recent pedicure. This was wonderful, for I was certainly tired of putrid, calloused feet.

Rich girl bought me and my mate and we were packed into a shopping bag. I was excited, for our chance to leave the store had finally arrived. However, finding her proved not particularly fortunate in the end, for once we were taken out of the box we were introduced to her closet, which was much the same environment as the store. We were surrounded by other shoes, though thankfully not nearly so offensive as our previous compatriots. She placed us on a shelf next to the other pair of white pumps she had mentioned before. Above us was another shelf, which held her more expensive shoes. We were a mere $400, unlike her precious Manolos, Jimmy Choos, and Louboutins.

After a month of gathering dust, we were pulled from the shelf and rich girl slipped her impeccably pedicured pieds inside of us and walked out to her car to pick up her friend and attend a party. We danced for several hours amongst a sea of shoes, and I believe we were some of the most fashionable ones in the crowd. At the end of the night, we found ourselves beside rich girl’s friend’s Chuck Taylor sneakers, and much to my embarrassment, witnesses to their conversation. She complained of how her feet ached, to which her friend instructed her to trade shoes. I was appalled that I could be replaced with such casual footwear, but they agreed to the transaction until the end of the night.

The last stipulation, I later found out, was forgotten, for we never saw rich girl again. When her friend stumbled up to her apartment that night, I was kicked under the bed, with another pair of battered sneakers. I prayed that rich girl would remember us, but as the days wore on, I began to despair. I believe my mate and I stayed under the bed in the dark for two weeks, though it was difficult to tell, before we saw the outside world again. Another girl, one who must have been related to the heathen who kicked us under the bed, pulled me from those recesses.

This girl, later found to be heathen’s sister, had somehow already acquired my mate and slipped me on her other foot, not perfectly tended to, but clean, unlike those that come out of a pair of sneakers. She was rather pleased with me and I expected that we would head to another party, which we did and fortunately I was not swapped for a different, comfortable shoe. She was a smart woman who clearly understood that beauty and fashion were not designed for comfort.

She wore my mate and me out to various restaurants and clubs for a month, spending much of that time in the company of black men’s dress shoes who had never been out of their boxes before. One night, however, I found myself kicked behind the door of an unfamiliar bedroom and when the morning came, I was awakened by an argument. Sometime during the shouting of obscenities, the door was slammed against the wall and I was crunched between them, which left a permanent line to mar my shiny white complexion.

I lay there behind the door for several days, unclaimed by the girl. I realized that she had abandoned me and could only hope that someone would come to discover my whereabouts again. However, when another woman did, I believe I caused her great anger and grief: I was not her size. Another argument followed my rediscovery. This new woman waved my mate and me around in front of a gentleman I was familiar with from my days with my previous owner. I was evidence of his infidelity and found myself soon flying through the air at his face. I had no desire to meet that face, however, and was quite glad when he ducked.

My good mood lasted only seconds, for the greatest tragedy of my life then occurred. The woman, still sobbing very indignantly, lobbed my mate after me and she flew out the window. A shoe is nothing without its mate, as I am sure you know. The death of my mate, for she must be dead after such a fall, was also my death.

A few days later, the man retrieved me from the floor and placed me in a box amongst six other pairs of shoes, which only served to remind me that I was now incomplete and unwanted. The other shoes belonged to the murderous woman, who never came to reclaim them either. We sat in the box for a long spell of time. The couples attempted to offer their condolences for my loss, but it was something from which I shall never recover.

After a while, I suppose the man needed more space in his closet, so he took us to a junk store and exchanged us for a bit of cash. That is how I came to be here.