The Shoes.

Poke. Poke. Poke!

"Look!"

He continues talking.

Poke! POKE!

Sounds like he may be wrapping up.

poke

I am not even looking his direction. In fact, I am staring down at the rung of the bar stool next to me.

"Oh wow," I think. "So cute. I want them."

Upon the bar stool's rung is a pair of off-white pumps with green strawberries on them. Atop each toe of the off-white pumps with green strawberries on them lies a sparkly green strawberry brooch. These shoes were fantastic.

POKE!

The overwhelming appeal of the off-white pumps with green strawberries on them (plus the equivalent of one bottle of wine) has caused my brain to send a signal to my finger to poke my friend to show him my fabulous discovery.

He turns to me. "Yes?"

"Look," I whisper and just point in awe.

He looks down at the rung of the bar stool where lie the wonder-pumps.

"Cute, huh?" I break my stare at them and turn to see his reaction.

"Yeah cute," he says.

As I reach for my wine glass, I make a mental note: Google green strawberry shoes when I get home.

Before I leave the bar that evening, I head to the bathroom.

As I sit down, I do as most females might, and glance down at the feet of the woman in the stall next to me. There they are! Those awesome shoes! But wait. They're facing the wrong direction. I look a second longer. And... oh my! There are male feet in tan flips flops facing the correct direction.

In retrospect, I probably let out an audible gasp although I'd like to think that I played it cool.

I quickly made my way back to the bar in order to minimize the lapsed-time awkwardness meter. Although, I did wash my hands. No need to sacrifice good hygiene.

As I sat back down on the bar stool, the image of the shoes facing each other is slowly searing its way into my memory. I don't remember the exact phrasing of how I broke the news about the amazing shoes and the dirty thing they were doing with the tan flip flops in the first stall.

The bartender laughed and reported the breaking news to other bartender as though it happens all the time. And I have no doubt that it does.

The bathroom fornicators emerged and repositioned themselves next to me once again, at the bar. I took a deep breath and tried not to look in their direction or even look like I was thinking about trying not to look in their direction.

Then, it occurred to me. The off-white pumps with green strawberries on them belonged to a hooker. She had to be a hooker. As they engaged in conversation, I was able to sneak a look at the overall ensemble. Her dress affirmed my suspicions. How did I not see it before?

This conclusion caused mal-feelings as I could not decide which was worse... the fact that shoes I yearned to Google and buy for my very own were being disgraced by a hooker OR the fact that I share my taste in pumps with a whore. Did I mention they were peep-toe?

Either way, I told her I liked her shoes.