by Helen Tynan
“When my sister has a bad day,” she says, “she goes into Brown Thomas to stroke the shoes.”
“To what the shoes?” he asks, not sure he’s heard right.
“When she has a bad day, she goes into Brown Thomas to stroke the shoes,” she repeats.
He blinks. “That’s what I thought you said,” he says. “I just don’t understand it. Why would she stroke the shoes? Has she got, like, a shoe fetish?”
She laughs. “No. No. At least, I don’t think so.” She looks uncomfortable, as if the thought has only just occurred to her. Now it’s lodged in her mind and she wants to shake it free. “It’s for the calming effect. Y’know, of touching something beautiful? The sensory experience.”
He looks at her. His expression is blank, but in his head, he’s thinking of stroking his Asics runners. Or his Doc Martens. Can’t see how that would be a sensory experience – not a pleasant one, in any case.
She’s looking at him, as though trying to read his mind. “No? No clue?”
He leans forward in his chair and touches his shoes. Plain brown loafers, he’s come straight from work. “Nope. Not feeling it,” he says.
She laughs again. “I don’t think you’re going to feel it from a pair of Clarks shoes.”
Is she insulting his shoes?
She gestures, her fingers wafting in the air. She has beautiful fingers. “You’d have to touch a pair of designer shoes. Beautifully crafted. Stiletto heels like needles. Satin, hand-stitched sandals. Calfskin leather boots.” Her eyes are half closing.
He imagines this is how she will look when she has an orgasm, and the thought makes him feel guilty. He looks down at her feet. Neatly crossed at the ankles. Cream runners with a pink V logo. “Like yours?”
“No,” she shakes her head. A slightly sad movement, he thinks. “I love my VEJA’s but they’re not the designer ones I’m thinking of. Not the ones that my sister strokes.”
This conversation continues to weave in weird directions he didn’t expect. But he decides to go with it. He’s meant to be getting to know her. “And what does your sister do after she’s stroked the shoes?” he asks. The words, once they’re out, sound borderline pornographic.
She seems to pick up on it. Her cheeks flush, little spots of colour on her high cheekbones. “What do you mean what does she do afterwards?”
It’s his turn to blush now, a hot streak of embarrassment running down between his shoulder blades. “Does she buy them? The shoes that she strokes?” Mundane questions. Trying to steer the flailing conversation back to safe waters.
Her eyes narrow. “No, of course she doesn’t. If she had the money to buy them, she wouldn’t need to go into the shop to stroke them, would she?”
The conversation has veered off course and is now going very, very badly. But where do you go with an opening like my sister likes to stroke shoes? He feels a wave of anger. These Tinder dates always feel like a test. Like women are trying to catch him out. Throw riddles at him and shower him with scorn when he can’t decode the test and provide the required response. He’s tired of it all. He just wants to meet a nice girl, who wants to go for walks, likes dogs, would eat a pizza watching a film on a weekday night.
She watches him. Seems to sense his frustration. His withdrawal. She reaches across the table, her delicate finger grazing his hand, so light he could have imagined it.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I don’t know where I was going with that story.” She lets out a long, shaky sigh. “I get nervous on these first dates. As if someone is judging me. Looking to see if I’m clever enough, or fun enough. Or just enough.” She pulls her hand back and reaches down for her little red shoulder bag. It clashes with the pink V on her runners. “I’ve made a mess of it again.”
She’s rising to her feet.
He puts out his hand and touches her bag, stilling her.
“Stay,” he says. “I want to hear more about you… And your sister.” He smiles.
Growing up, Helen was the unusual schoolkid who celebrated getting an essay for homework. Fast forward through a husband, four children and a career, she is currently studying an MA in Creative Writing at UL. Her first novel, Cancelled! is due to be published by Poolbeg Press in Spring 2027.
Photo by Ben Wicks on Unsplash
