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Aria The Man Who Feels Everything wants to know where we keep the shoes in his size. His feet are bleeding. I am reluctant to point out the shelves. The man takes down a pair of black loafers. They are full of blood, he replaces them. The next pair of shoes, size eleven basketball sneakers, full of blood as well. The Man Who Feels Everything returns them. I pretend to be doing something with my hands and a small girl's Mary Janes, buckling and unbuckling the shiny strap. "Are they all like this?" The Man Who Feels Everything asks me. The next pair is white slipper dock shoes which can only look good on a middle aged man at the helm of his yacht in navy and golds, shorts that show off patchy streaks of wiry gray leg hair, drinking Seagram's at 11:00 AM and is so fabulously wealthy no one would say the shoes look bad. Those shoes are filled with meal worms and smell of gangrene. "Perhaps there is somewhere else around here?" The Man Who Feels Everything asks me. "I don't know," I say. I don't know much about shoes or where to get them. I work in the store. Shoes come to me. The Man Who Feels Everything buys the pair I have been buckling. "It is impossible to forget," he says and bleeds over the threshold.
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