She was a young girl serving, (if that's the right word, which it isn't), in the shoe store, and she looked at me disapprovingly.
'I don't?' I said, 'Why not?'
It could be that I was in trackpants that had been in the wash two thousand times (and looked like it) and a faded top to match.
She just looked at me. 'You don't.'
OK, she looked like she'd just come out of the Brand New Krispy Kleen packet, not a brown curl out of place and the slickest footwear I'd ever seen, with everything in between in exactly the right spot, and I may not have seemed like someone who could afford the Sharks.
'Bring me out a pair. Size 8.'
I tried them on and they fitted like... well... a glove. Gloves. I don't know how I tied the laces, given that I take five minutes to do so at the best of times and not with a Miss Precious looking on, but they were no problem. I stamped about in them, similar to the way you kick the tires when buying a used car.
Her disapproval was almost tangible, or would have been except that she kept a safe distance from my dishevelment as if it were contagious. The corners of her mouth turned down.
'I'll take them.'
She looked like someone who'd been forced to yield up a silk purse to, or possibly cast pearls before, a member of the hog family with an ear missing.
Maybe that's how she makes all her sales to blokes a bit long in the tooth. The old fools can't stand the challenge to their authorit-air and she makes a whopping commission. I give her credit for not breaking character from beginning to end, though. And just possibly she could have been right about my choice.
|Sharks. Thanks, Stan Smith You're a legend.|