A few years ago, he stood in my closet, staring at the shoes I'd just finished organizing. I was resting on the bed, exhausted from...the feat.

"There's a rule you've clearly violated," he said authoritatively. "One pair of shoes per decade you've lived...you've got at least one pair of shoes per year you've lived!" I heard him counting. A few minutes later he screamed, "My God! You've got almost two pairs of shoes for every year you've been alive. That is NOT normal. From now on, you have to throw out two pairs of shoes for every new pair you buy."

"Fuck you," seemed like the best response.

"What? Don't be unreasonable about this, Ann."

"Well, maybe you consider it unreasonable, but until you start buying my shoes, I think you're the one being unreasonable imposing these rules."

"Ann, c'mon now, it is obvious that you have a shoe problem."

"No, you're the one with the shoe problem." I took out a blank pad of paper and pretended to read from it. "According to my records, based on last week alone, you owe me three pairs of boots...and I like expensive ones."

 "Why do you do this--why can't you just admit this is crazy? I gotta get out of here--I'm leaving."

"I need some new black ones," I shouted as he stomped down then hallway. "With heels," I screamed, just as he slammed the door.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The phone rang and when I answered, she quickly asked, "What are you doing?" She'd had a bad day so I translated girlspeak with ease--it meant she was up for doing something bad together, like eating something we weren't supposed to eat or drinking something we'd regret when the alarm clock went off the next morning.

"Let me throw on some jeans and I'll see you in ten minutes."

I pulled off the black Frye harness boots I was wearing so that I could change into a pair of jeans. I love those boots, not just because they're comfortable, but because of what they proclaim when I wear them--they say that something obviously died to make these boots, and that something else might just die tonight. I pulled on the jeans and then my brown suede Frye harness boots, the ones that say that I really don't give a shit, but that I might kill you just the same.

When I got there, before my ass hit the seat next to hers, my eyes, then my fingers, fell to her red Frye harness boots. 

They weren't that bright red like the color of boots your parents bought for your brother that Halloween, the ones that made him cry and wail about looking like Opie's stupid cousin from the city. "Shit, son," your father consoled, "it's not ever about the clothes. It's all in the attitude." And then he taught him that ball-swinging swagger, the one your brother still affects when he feels threatened, thinks he's about to get laid, or, when he's lucky, some combination of the two. Back then, though, the swagger coupled with those oversized shiny red boots just made him look like a drunk, one-man, midget, gay pride parade. Your mother looked on, tinged in an unspoken horror.

But my friend's boots were a different red, an earthier tone that helped her boots proclaim that, although someone might die, we were going to have a hell of a lot of fun before it happened.  As my fingers lingered for what must have been an uncomfortable length of time for anyone bearing witness to it, I stammered, "I covet them." It seemed like a more polite way of saying "give me those fucking boots," especially since I didn't want anyone to die so early in the evening.