They Aggravate Me

They aggravate me. Every day, they pinch and rub. They itch and swell. You see my toes, they aggravate me.

It's the shoes, I believe. The darling black leather sandals I've been wearing to work. The mules behaved themselves for a few days. They were quiet, well behaved and ate all their vegetables. Now they are cranky, irritable and onry.

"Let's rub the ant bites!" they hiss in glee. I'm walking up the stairs when my feet erupt in flames. I grit my teeth and make it to the top, pumping hard to get around the corner.

"The toes! Get the toes!" they cry. At every step, my toes feel as they they've been rubbed with sandpaper. I walk faster. My toes become more and more hot. It feels as though melted lava is licking against the sides of my feet.

"Here we go!" the shoes squeal in delight. "Pinch, pinch her good!" My big toe suddenly feels as though a crab shook it's hand in acquaintance. I grit my teeth harder as I turn the corner to find my publisher. I am forced to standing on my toes, which are turning red from the pinching. My feet begin to tingle as though popcorn is bursting inside them. As the publisher walks off, I bolt for the stairs.

"The grand finale!" they yell triumphantly, sending up a crescendo around them. "The finale! The ankles, let's hear the ankles play!"

And at that moment, my ankle folds underneath me and I tumble down a few stairs, grabbing the carpeted wall with my nails like a cat. I wave off the concerned faces and make it down the stairs with some of my dignity intact. The shoes are giggling.

The shoes will be having a break tomorrow. For you see the shoes, they aggravate me.