It was the crimson boots that made me follow her. Had she been wearing black flats or tan sandals things might have ended differently. But those crimson boots, but for those crimson boots. They called me. They called me. Reminded me of Laura, dressed in jeans, stepping up into my pickup. Skirt flipping up as she smiled down from the passenger seat. She hadn’t been smiling by the end of that night. Laura had worn red boots too, expensive ones. Before she disappeared.
It was not the first time that it had happened, not the first time I had followed a woman through the streets, head down, eyes focused on her feet. Barely taking in her ankle. Unaware of anything above the shin. Trembling at the sound of the clip-clop as she heel-toed along the footpath.
The rain began to come down then and I imagined her stepping in a puddle, mud covering the sole of the boot, water turning the red leather dark. I felt nauseous. Gripping the handle of the knife firmly I steadied myself. Acting fast had now become critical. Water began to drip down my face. The rain made it difficult to keep her in view. The red of the boots, however, acted like a flare, allowing me to identify her through the downpour. As I stared the boots began to rise into the air and I hurried as she stopped to rummage for her keys.
Thunder began to rumble above and I barely slid through the apartment building entrance, allowing the door to swing shut behind me, pressing myself to the wall, keeping to the shadows. I watched as once more the red boots drifted away from me, pausing outside of a door. Like a flash I was on her, knife pressed against the tender flesh of her lower back.
Her sharp intake of breath as I pushed her against the door. “I don’t have any money” she promised, making me smile. What would I do with money?
“Give me your boots”, I demanded, making my voice grunt-like, deep. Nothing like my own.
“What?”
“Your boots! Give me your boots! Bend over real slow honey and slip them off.”
She did as I desired. Moving slowly into a crouch. The sound of the zipper and the whisper of leather on cotton as she removed the footwear was almost too much for me. Her feet now naked except for some worn-out yellow socks.
“Line them up at the wall.” Her hands shook as she complied with my request, fingers slipping, fumbling. “Careful!” I forgot my deep voice in panic but I no longer cared.
“Sorry, sorry” her breath coming in sharp pants, she stood again.
“Don’t turn around, walk into the apartment, and close the door behind you”, I pushed the knife a bit firmer into her kidney, just to be sure she obeyed.
The click of the closing door surprised me, transfixed as I was by the earthy smell of the leather. The scent taking me back to that long ago night with Laura. Taking off my coat I carefully wrapped the red boots up. Ensuring their safety on the wet walk home.
Christine Maree Reid resides in Sydney, Australia, though most frequently exists within invented worlds and daydreams. She is a writer of fiction, poetry, and periodic peculiarities. She has previously been published in The Quarry Journal and was short-listed for the 2023 Future Leaders Writers Prize.
Fascinating perspective! I'll remember this one for a long time.