Clutching her red stilettos to her chest, she gathered her clothes strewn around his bedroom. Her black lace panties, war casualties now, peeked out from under the man who slept soundly in his own bed, a dirty mattress on a dirty floor.
As she tiptoed to the door, she wanted nothing more than to be in her bed, to dream back her pride, to fill the emptiness that lodged itself like a tumor and gorged on what was left of her sanity.
Outside, the daylight cursed her, exposing her as the desperate fool she felt she had become. All that day, she would think about last night as often as her heart beat, as often as she breathed. Every muscle in her body ached: she knew she had tried too hard to be something special to the man, who would eat his breakfast alone and be happy, alone, and not ache. But she was no fool: she knew she meant no more to him than his junk mail--something to pick up, look over, and trash.
On the walk of shame to her car, her red stilettos numbed her toes and blistered her heels. She promised herself that as soon as she got home, she would throw them away and tomorrow, or the weekend, one day soon, she would buy more sensible shoes, thinking maybe, if she looks decent, she might start to believe she is.