Wet Shoes Tonight

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…

You sprayed these yesterday. The sock is still wet at the ankle. You’re propped against your Doorstep Bench, kicking off the pair one at a time, rain dripping off the toe caps onto the welcome mat you forgot to shake out last week. The spray bottle you’d paid $12 for sits on the entry shelf…

Both pairs came in wet. There is one clear strip of floor by the window. You set your keys down on the low ledge of the Doorstep Bench first, the edge that never catches rain even in the worst downpours. The rain still drips off the hem of your rain jacket onto the doormat, and…

Water sits in the toe when you look in. You have not stuffed anything in yet. Your sock squelches when you peel it off, leaving a wet ring on the doormat that bleeds into the frayed edge. The rest of this canvas pair is spotted but only damp, not soaked through, save for the left…

The liner comes free in your fingers. The boot shell is still wet inside. Snow melts in a thin rivulet down the side of the rubber upper onto your welcome mat, and you brush a clump of half-frozen slush off the heel with your socked foot. You kick the other boot gently to loosen its…

You open the shoe and the smell is already there. The sock is in your hand. You’d walked three blocks through an unexpected downpour after the bus dropped you off, and the canvas soaked through before you could duck under an awning. The front doormat is still dotted with the puddles you shook off your…

The toe of the leather shoe is a shade darker than the heel. You have not put it away yet. The rain stopped 22 minutes ago, and you’d left the pair propped against the apartment building wall while you helped a neighbor carry a potted fiddle leaf fig up the stoop. Your right palm rests…

The tread is packed. The mat is one step inside the door. Your socks are still damp from the puddle you stepped through 20 minutes back, and you don’t want to track crumbs of clay all over the carpet your roommate just steam cleaned this morning. You shift your weight to your bare heel, one…

Only the right shoe went into the puddle. The left one is merely damp at the toe. You hover on the threshold, keys still jangling in your hand, rain still dripping off the hood of your jacket onto the back of your neck. You don’t want to trail water across the entryway rug you spent…