“Shoe Sale” by Sile Mannion

shoe sale

His wife died unexpectedly. She dropped dead in the shower. He found her. She hardly drank, never smoked, was forever at the gym. A healthy corpse. She had great shoes, my size. She hated waste, so he puts on a sale. I go to the sale, but not the funeral. (I didn’t know her that well.) There are ranks of them, heels touching. The effect is serried and uniform. It makes me think of the Terracotta Army. But I can try none, I can buy none. I cannot walk in her shoes. He stands like a general beside them. I tell him again how sorry I am. How very sorry. He thanks me and says he is selling everything now.  Everything must go, he says. Everything must go.

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Sile Mannion is an Irish writer living in New Zealand. When she can, she writes. When she can’t,  she reads. She believes that it takes a long time to make a short tale.

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