Being Her Shoes

We are extremely jealous of her sandals, the ones with the glitzy silver rhinestones. She has worn them twice this week. But who is counting? We scoff at her apple decorated tennis shoes, who would wear them in public? I hate those damned ugly fur-lined boots she drags out for snow, my mate says. I snicker. We hear footsteps, and get quiet. Humans get weird when the shoes are talking. The closet door opens a crack. Someone yells “Are you ready yet?” The husband, we think. He never comes in here. The door opens wide, making me blink due to the bright light. I feel like I am in a police interrogation room. Pick me! Pick me! Pick me! My mate begins to chant. I shush him. I can hear him still thinking it from his corner of the closet where he was thrown Upside down and backwards last summer. I am sitting under a garbage bag of clothes, so why am I laughing? Our woman reaches for my mate. I can feel him smiling. I try to scoot closer, so she can see me. She pokes around a bit in this hovel from hell, then she drops him. OUCH! She picks up the glitzy rhinestone sandals, and the door shuts. “I hate YOU!” my mate yells at me. We are in the dark again, in the furiously maddening darkness. I want to kill him, but I cannot move, squashed under this damned garbage bag.