In my defense, I spied them several weeks ago, sitting quietly in the window of a shop down the street. I was late to meet a friend, but I vowed to return and retrieve them.
I realize this totals three new pairs of shoes in as many weeks. I realize that these shoes are not a kitchen table, a convection oven, a scanner or a guitar — four things I am supposed to purchase.
But when the weekend began, I hadn’t accounted for the rain being quite so…rainy. Or wet. And cold. I hadn’t accounted for allergies or Sudden Onset of the Crabby Appletons. I hadn’t accounted for the Spanish restaurant to be closed. Or for Molly’s book to be so enveloping that it would be impossible to eject myself from its pages, despite my stomach devouring itself in the process. [Note: Molly's book requires a full stomach or nearby snacks. Don't say I didn't warn you.]
I didn’t anticipate, under the intoxication of woodfired pizza, to stumble again upon the striped flats, still sitting quietly in the window. Nor that they would wrap up a weekend of misfires so tidily.