Thick-footed

Dancing and falling, the politics of politeness in public.

She walked into the bar with no shoes and took a seat, toes on display whilst her preschool child rushed away. An elderly gentleman at a neighbouring table stated questioningly, “Most women would be lost without a hundred pairs.”

“It's natural this way,” she replied as she held a whiskey in one hand and a 7000-chemical cigarette in the other.

“You don't remember me?” he asked, with the minimised bruised ego one would expect from a man over sixty-five. And when she never responded, he added, “We had a good conversation about a year ago...and I said that my wife would love to meet your spirit... she's here – can I introduce you?”

“Sorry,” she said. “I'm rushing. Just having a drink while my kid piddles, and then I've gotta get out of here.”

He never pointed out that her daughter had just left for the toilet, or that his wife was obviously sitting with him only 5 metres away. He dealt with his dismissal by awkwardly pausing, shuffled his thoughts, said, “You keep well”, and looked away with grimace.

I, the only other person in the bar, was enjoying a meal special that was big enough for three, but not big enough to distract me from their encounter. I'd recognised her too. When she’d chosen her table, we’d nodded and fleetingly smiled without speech the way people so often do when they don’t wish harm upon someone they don't want to know beyond politeness.

But the observation of her and the old man stirred me, so I broke social protocol and jested: “Toes shrink in Winter... without shoes, you might fall over.”

“You're quick,” she said, to which I was smart enough not to follow with, “You must be thick-footed.”