Walking in My Girlfriends Shoes



It was time to open the door.

When they first met they discovered a common ground. It bound them together.
Theirs was a freedom which kept them a prisoner.
Take their careers for instance.

He; a fire fighter.

She; a model.

They discussed the expectations which accompanied their roles.
“You have a heroic career and the appearance of a Greek God, but you’re complaining that it attracts too many women? Is it such a hard status to live up to?”
“It’s alright for you,” he said, “all you have to do is look pretty and pose for the camera.”
“You want to try walking in these shoes.” She said.

So he did.

He liked it.

His inner gaoler locked him in the room with the black dog, then threw away the key.

“Why don’t you leave me here?” He said.

“Your prison is my prison.” She said.

He looked deep into her eyes, saw his reflection mirrored in there and cried.
He rested his head on her shoulder and played with her long brown hair.

“I am feeling how you are feeling.” She said

“That is exactly how it is.” He said.

Being caged is a lonely existence, cooped up in one room, and now the door was unlocked.
“Let’s go.” She turned to look at the pile of long thick brown hair, on the tiled floor by the sink.
Then smoothed her palm over the new cropped style, before she dug her hands into her trouser pockets.
In contrast he flicked his long fair hair from his shoulder, and smoothed down his dress.
They stepped out onto the sunlit road, and faced the town.
They’d found their freedom, unlocked the chains binding them to expectations.

Each walked forward and onward, heads held high, in their girlfriend’s shoes.


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