I am not admitting that I have a shoe fetish. In fact, I vehemently deny the existence of such a “not-that-there’s-anything-wrong-with-it” peccadillo in my world. Yet while riding the Metro this weekend I saw a drop-dead gorgeous woman who was six feet tall even before she put on the boots, I will admit that I looked a little longer than I would have liked.
Even if I could have avoided staring looking at any woman that tall, with seemingly perfect café au lait skin absent blemish or make-up, who could have ignored those boots? Even if I were able to ignore her un-self-conscious laugh, and mellifluously rich voice, who could expect me not to watch the boots? Even if I hadn’t wondered about the lustrous, silken look of her hair, no reasonable human doesn’t peep those boots, right?
To be sure, I saw her wedding band – exceedingly tasteful by the way – and noticed when her voice turned soft to take the call from the man I must presume her husband. I wasn’t trying to be creepy Metro guy, and kept trying to focus on my newspaper. But damn these boots…
Posted by restaurant refugee 
