I meet her by chance. She says she has some 50 pairs of shoes mostly from Italy. She also says there must be more than 2 dozen she’s hardly ever worn. She asks for my telephone number. I make her swear that she won’t share it with anyone. She swears she wouldn’t. I believe her. I write my number down on a small piece of paper along with my name. On the same paper, I write down her name and number. I rip the page apart handing one piece to her and pocketing the other.
I go home.
I have lunch. I want to grab my phone. I can’t find it anywhere; not on the counter or the top of the shoe cabinet – its usual place. It’s on the bed. It must be on sleep mode.
I am excited and ready to call my new contact. I fish out the piece of paper of my pocket; a small crumpled ball. I flatten it out. What I am staring at looks way too familiar: it’s actually my name and number.