Shoes. They would tell a lot about the wearer to the haggard vagabond slumped next to the trash can on 26 street. All kinds walked by him everyday. Pink high heels, black steel toed boots, fluorescent converse, stylish pumps and even the odd worn out derby. Grabbing his attention today was a pair of bright red pumps strolling alongside pink running shoes. The red pumps were obviously irritated by their partner. You could tell by the fact that they hit the ground with a little more force than required. The running shoes were patient, like a lioness stalking the prey, their gait apparently casual yet the tightened leg muscles suggesting apprehension. The pumps stopped, turning a hundred an eighty degrees. The runners, taken by surprise, stopped abruptly in their tracks. The heel of the pumps came down on the toe of the runners. They stepped back.
"Sorry. My bad." A voice as lethal as the crimson pumps spoke. The shoes resumed their journey seemingly unaffected by the episode but the vibes of malice were easily identifiable.
The vagabond chuckled as the odd pair retreated into a coffee shop and a new one comprising of sneakers and loafers came into view.