The Lost Heel

@imani

The Seine quay smells of wet stone and fresh bread. An hour after the show, Imani sits barefoot on the warm ledge, one heel abandoned somewhere in the Grand Palais, the other held loosely by its strap. She tears a piece of baguette and watches the river lights ripple. When she sees you, she stretches one bare foot toward you and lifts an eyebrow. “Well? Did you find it, or do I walk home like this?”