The shoes are already by the door. Doorstep Bench is for the pair you will wear next: one that came in wet, one with a lace that will not hold, and the choice between the two in the morning.
Wet Shoes Tonight is what you do before the pair is put away. Laces and Soles is the broken lace, the peeling toe, and the insole that bunched. Tomorrow's Pair is which shoes are actually dry and which ones stay in the closet.
Each page finishes one job. A number on the page is an illustrative example unless you are copying it off your own shoe.
You can see the crack when you bend the shoe. It was not there last week. You’re still balanced on one foot outside your apartment door, rain dripping off the hem of your coat onto the welcome mat, the un-cracked left shoe still laced tight on your foot. You set the split right shoe down…
The broken lace is on the table. A spare is somewhere in the junk drawer. You huff a small laugh, because you’d meant to replace the frayed left lace on your white canvas low-tops three weeks ago, when you first noticed the threads pulling apart near the toe. You kick the scuffed pair near your…
The metal ring wiggles. The lace running through it is already frayed. You’re hunched on the Doorstep Bench with one scuffed work boot propped on your opposite knee, rain still dripping off the toe from your walk home. A thread from the frayed lace catches on the sharp edge of the eyelet when you tug…
You feel the fold as soon as your heel drops in. The shoe is still on your foot. You don’t yank your foot out fast, because you know that’ll just crumple the soft suede tab more and leave a permanent crease you’ll be picking at for weeks. You balance on your other foot, one hand…
A lip of rubber has lifted. It catches when you walk across the kitchen. You kick off the scuffed white low-top by the Doorstep Bench, prodding the loose edge with the tip of your sock to see how far it pulls away from the canvas upper. A crumb of dried sidewalk dirt falls out from…
The bow is a hard lump. Your fingernail cannot find an end. You’re still hunched on the cinder block step outside your apartment, the hem of your rain jacket dripping dark spots onto the toe of the left canvas sneaker. Illustrative example: the laces stayed soaked through even after you stood under the building awning…
The plastic tip is gone. The lace end is a fuzz that will not pass the hole. You shift your weight on the Doorstep Bench, one foot still in the scuffed white canvas low-top you’re wearing, the other bare on the welcome mat. A light rain started 10 minutes ago while you were out walking…
The lace broke in your hand at the door. You are already late. Your keys are jangling in your other palm, fat cold raindrops are spotting the welcome mat three inches from the toe of your scuffed white sneaker, and the broken end of the lace curls like a crumpled thread against your thumb. This…
These will not be dry by morning. The other pair is in the closet. You brush a raindrop off the laces of the wet suede chukkas in your hand, setting them briefly on the edge of the Doorstep Bench to brush the mud off the soles before you bring them inside. The damp fabric of…
You peel the sock off and it is soaked higher than the shoe looks. You’re still balancing one foot on the welcome mat, rain dripping off the edge of your hood onto the rubber toe of the left shoe you set down ten seconds earlier. The cold seeps up your bare ankle before you can…
About · Contact · Privacy · Disclaimer · Advertising · Terms