"I Like Your Boots"

Danielle and I parted ways in Times Square as she headed back to Brooklyn, and I tried to figure out to make it down to @socialmedium's birthday bash in sliver of Manhattan between the East Village and the Lower East Side where I'm never exactly what neighborhood I'm really in.

I needed to take either the 7 or the S from Times Square to Grand Central, but the 7 wasn't running, and the S was going to be a twenty minute wait. I opted against @socialmedium's party in favor of invitation #2, a group of Brooklyn friends who were out in a place not far from my apartment.

I left the S platform and made my way back to the jam-packed, Brooklyn-bound N,Q,R,W platform, where I was one of the only people flying solo tonight. 

A girl with a Billy Idol-style platinum blonde spike stopped talking mid-sentence, and looked adoringly, albeit hazy-eyed, at my boots. The boy standing beside her, whose back had been turned as I approached followed her gaze so that I could see a thick layer of foundation, subtle eyeliner, and a light blush.

"I like your boots," the girl said. "Those are fucking sweet."

"Thanks," I said. "I love them."

***

The Q was running local instead of express, so my four stops to Brooklyn turned into more stops than I could count, and I was ready to crawl into bed by the time I got off at Dekalb Avenue for the walk home.

I got off the train, helped some girls from Manhattan find their way to Union Street, and headed down the platform to my exit. I passed a man leaning against a pole, waiting for the R.

"I like your boots," he said.

"Thanks," I said to him before I walked up the steps and out of the station.

***

I emerged from underground into the lights of the Applebees at the corner of Fulton and Dekalb. A sanitation truck came down the street at the first intersection, so I paused, not sure if he'd yield to me. He stopped to let me cross, and as I did, he flashed his lights once. 

I ignored him.

"I like your boots," I heard him say from the cab of the truck.

I gave a quick glance over my shoulder as I headed up the street towards my apartment.

***

I got home, and I sat down to take off my boots. That's when I noticed that the leather at broadest part of the boot was coming apart from the sole. I took of the right boot and looked closer. Sure enough, a seperation about an eighth of an inch long had developed on the right boot. 

I set the right boot on the floor, slipping off the left. I looked at the same place on it, and once again the leather was no longer attached to the sole.  

Before New York, I probably would have taken these holes as a sign that the boots needed to be retired, but in New York, we have cobblers. Lots of them. And one of them happens to be just down the block from me. 

Chalk one up to New York for cobblers.

I like my boots.