runs a finger across filigree letters,
giggles at the door.
the Little Inn looks marvelous today,
dressed in her sunday best
and filling up with guests who impress.
"table for two?"
"we're with the party."
"ah, yes. right this way."
we stride across polished floors
to the room at the back, which glows at its hearth
like lipstick and silk scarves and well-kept shoes.
we sit amongst bookcases and lean upon pillows,
hug eternal blondes and ageless silvers,
inhale leather and cologne and a log gently burning.
just the kind of day to lose yourself in, so i do.
an hor d'oeuvre, a chuckle...
a sinking feeling.
my shoe is stuck in the grate. jammed right in.
suddenly, i'm the center of the party
as we all band together to save my clearance-shelf pump.
the very first time i ever wear heels.
(why won't this format to the left? oh, well.)