She left her shoes on the corner every time she took me up to her room. The desk clerk had been paid off so that she could walk barefoot whenever she wanted. She asked me to go barefoot, but I kept my shiny wingtips on; the extra height was useful. I could see over the city with her feet in my hands, my nails dug into her callouses. I framed the world between her knees. It was a simple and honest transaction which kept both of us fed. There was no cause for ceremony. It was all very simple. When I found her high-heeled platforms piled with ratty sneakers in the alley between Fell and High Street, I knew I’d never find her again.
Hobie Anthony lives in Portland, Oregon. His work can be found in such journals as Wigleaf, Fourteen Hills, Fiction Southeast, [PANK], Housefire, Crate, Ampersand, Birkensnake, Connotation Press, and more. He writes experimental novels. hobieanthony.com