Footnotes

When I moved to New York, I took a taxi from LaGuardia to my new home in downtown Manhattan.  I remember looking out the window as the taxi sped down the FDR (though, at that time, I didn’t know it was called the FDR) and seeing a billboard that read NYC: Tolerant of your religious beliefs, judgmental of your shoes.  Three days later, I was wearing a brand new pair of patent black leather high heels and I was watching them make small, pained, drunk steps down Second Avenue.  That’s when we met, when my high heels stopped on the sidewalk beside your dirty white sneakers. 

On our fourth date we went to see a movie on a Sunday evening.  You wore brown leather loafers and I wore pink Birkenstock sandals.  I told you that your shoes made me feel under-dressed.  On our next date, I wore high heels and you decided that we should walk over the Brooklyn Bridge.  I only agreed because I am afraid of heights and bridges and I wanted you to hold my hand.  When we got to the other side of the bridge, you were holding my hand and my toes were bleeding inside my shoes, so I decided to walk barefoot.   I don’t remember what shoes I was wearing the night you told me you loved me.