The shoes mocked me as they sit on the mantle-piece. They were pink. Girls like pink, don't they. Or so they're told, I guess. I would've called mine Gladys. She would've played with guns and cars, if I had any say in it. Unless she wanted dolls, but it's hard to tell if what they really want is what the girl next door has.
It seems my being lost in thought has not gone unnoticed, and a young woman with a glass of wine in one hand and a blue tote bag in the other walks towards me; her interest piqued by my steady stare at the shoes. “I was there when they bought those, you know”, she says to me with just a pinch of mourning colouring her voice.