View From Basement Flat

It was the sound that first drew me to the low street-facing window. I cleared a small spot in the grime and was rewarded by ankles. Clickity-clack, clickity-clack. Joie de vivre discernible in the rhythm of her hurried pace, that's only broken when she skipped the crack in the concrete pavement. Clickity-clack, clickity-clack. The fashionable red high heels heralded slim, well-formed ankles which could only lead to good legs powering the mesmerising clickity-clack, clickity-clack. Perhaps a secretary or working at reception nearby. Her stride was confident, assured, as far as the high heels allowed. Clickity-clack, clickity-clack. One could set one's watch by her and it appeared someone did just that. Jeans-clad and brown brogues appeared from the opposite direction. Clickity-clack … clickity-clack … Not breaking her determined stride he had to fall in with her pace. Old acquaintances or new friends? There was a slight skip in her walk. Clickity-click, clickity-click. Glistening in the morning sun the gold ankle bracelet shone new. Brogues in close proximity to her, shortened his longer strides. Clickity-clack, clickity-clack. The summer heat did not entice her to swap high heels for sandals. He wore story socks with sandals - a marked difference in dress code. Clickity-clack, clickity-clack. As cool autumn approached, so did the distance widens between them - the former rapport's now broken. The staccato now hesitant: Clickity…clack. Clickity…clack. When the first flurries of snow fell, her lone high heels sought purchase on the thin black ice on the pavement. The bracelet's not in evidence. Click-clack, click-clack …