Fiction

No New Shoes

Do other people plan for this moment? I shift the hangers in the wardrobe though I already know there’s no good suit, pristine for a smart exit. Cuffs are worn, collars rough at the back, and the lapels are all too wide, or too narrow, I don’t know which, but I do know, like Goldilocks, they are not just right. The shoes are worse. Even Harry’s Sunday best have been out in the paddocks. The heel of the right shoe when I pick it up is the counter-wedge to the accelerator on the tractor. We got out of the habit…

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