Your choice

I stared at my closet like it owed me money. Two pairs of sandals glared back. Black strappy ones and the strappy gold ones—I honestly could not pick. I asked my boyfriend for help, which was asking the blind to pick my wallpaper. He perched on the edge of the bed, arms folded, while I slipped the first pair on and did the little runway strut across the rug. That gave him a front-row view of my thighs, so the first sensible thought he had probably drowned in drool. I swapped to the gold pair and bent to tweak a buckle, and whatever backup brain cell he was still using just dove into those long, smooth legs like they were his weekend hobby. By the third lap around the room he was not checking the shoes anymore—he was two heartbeats from licking my calves and calling it good taste. When I snapped my fingers in front of his face he blinked like a man waking up from a leg-centered dream. Neither of us mentioned shoes again.