Victor stumbled from the pied-a-terre, tripped over a pair of crystal-heeled Christian Louboutins he’d bought for her one month anniversary then remembering, swung around and stared at the sea of shoes she’d thrown from the second floor window before his arrival earlier that evening, all the shoes he’d bought for her when they rendezvoused.
She’d done it in anticipation of the Wizard of Oz ruby slippers she wanted; but instead of those heel-less, gnome-like monstrosities, he’d bought a pair of red strappy Stuart Weitzman’s, just as expensive, but with six-inch stilettos that gave him a hard-on imagining her tiny arches straining against the diamond-encrusted straps.
Why hadn’t he realized that even she would throw a fit; they always did. He just spoiled them too much. But this one had gone too far and so had he. In moments Hermann would arrive and it would be as if nothing had happened. But what about all these shoes?