It was the shoes.
Black, scuffed, well-worn.
They reminded her of him.
Back to her college years: parties, cheap wine and music.
They loved their music. Second-hand albums that hopped and skipped on the turntable. Saturday night gigs. He nursed the microphone while she watched on, like every female there, transfixed.
She smiled, removing a leather glove, before delving into her handbag for a few coins.
“Thanks,” he muttered, looking up.
His dark eyes met her gaze and, for just an instant, there was a spark of recognition before he dropped his head.
She willed herself not to look back.
Black, scuffed, well-worn.
They reminded her of him.
Back to her college years: parties, cheap wine and music.
They loved their music. Second-hand albums that hopped and skipped on the turntable. Saturday night gigs. He nursed the microphone while she watched on, like every female there, transfixed.
She smiled, removing a leather glove, before delving into her handbag for a few coins.
“Thanks,” he muttered, looking up.
His dark eyes met her gaze and, for just an instant, there was a spark of recognition before he dropped his head.
She willed herself not to look back.
