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I see her in leather lace-up high tops. She’s a small-in-stature woman yet her feet seem smaller, still. Small, like the sexy seven and a half centimeters of beautifully bound feet in China, tied with ribbon and with cloth, figure eights holding broken toes and arches in horrible healing patterns. Her high tops swing comfortably a few inches from the floor from a middle-aged mid-section as she sits on the subway. I don’t think her non-Asian feet have adopted the foreign practice.

Inside the ankle of one shoe, no sock, there’s an impossibly small bottle tucked. A microflask. When she’s finished reading her magazine, maybe she will want the words to float from page to page, spinning from shooting her shoe.

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