Battered Purple Loafers

There are holes on the bottoms of my loafers where my big toes go. When I walk on the street, I come home and have nearly permanent black marks on my toes. For some reason, I can’t stop wearing these loafers, and I can’t bring myself to buy new ones. I don’t have a major attachment to them, I just don’t like wearing any other shoes. There’s no other shoe that will make me happy. In some regard, these once burgundy loafers—now a purple-hue—are a representation of my life. I sometimes think about all the moments these loafers have shared with me, both on and off my feet. They seem to always be in the room, off to the side, patiently waiting to be battered some more.

Nobody has commented on the holes. I worry about that. In public I’ll sit cross-legged, exposing the flesh of my feet to strangers. There are no glances, no recognition. Occasionally, a man or woman, generally older, will look down and say how much they love the pennies I put in them. It reminds them of their youth. That makes me happy, naturally, but it also makes me think of all the pennies I’ve lost in these loafers. All of the change I won’t get back. At the beginning of the summer, after a drunken night out, I stumbled upon a fountain. There were no pennies at the bottom of the water. How strange it was to see a fountain with no wishes inside. I bent down and threw my two pennies, only to forget my wish the following morning.

I think I’ll continue wearing these, that is, until I learn my lesson on the street and perhaps step on broken glass. There’s a part of me that believes even after that, I’ll still be wearing the same battered purple loafers.