Roadkill

Animals dead on the road typically evoke a stronger emotional response than clothing on the road. If I see a mutilated fluffy tail on the double yellows, I think it might be Wart's squirrel lover from Sword in the Stone. But when I see a shoe, I usually just think some negligent driver committed misdemeanor littering.

Things change though; I've never seen roadkill quite like this.
















I've seen animals, compressed into 2-dimensional corpses, glued to the highway with their own blood as the adhesive. But this flattened shoe, split apart by the accosting speed of a passing vehicle, had the macabre presence of a dead animal.

The moist, vibrant shoe leather complemented the woman's purse as she strode from the passenger seat to the restaurant door. The clicking of the heels against the concrete attracted her date's eyes. He held the door open for her as she walked through, her maroon dress trailing like a ribbon unrolling from its spool. "Thank you," she said. He smiled, blushingly avoiding her eyes. Her dress, her smile, and her shoes were all blended together creating a powerful first-date persona—the identity that says as much with actions as it does with words.

Dead animals easily sadden us because the blissfully unaware creatures have a specific life and death. Maroon pumps are made out of inanimate objects to begin with, so they are easily disregarded as trash.

But I've never seen a shoe this flat, horribly crushed of its life pursuit of protecting and accentuating the foot. Even the spike heel was robbed of its perpendicular glory to heighten and beautify its wearer by being pushed parallel to the sole.

I've seen trash, and I've seen dead animals—and this was neither. This shoe was a moment somewhere between true sadness and losing your fourth-favorite piece of jewelry. An instant that makes you think, "This is a memorable moment," as you walk away into forgetfulness.