I slid my feet into the new shoes. They were bright yellow, festive, and fun. Just looking at them made me happy.
Something was not quite right with the fit. Also, the shoes felt vaguely squishy and wet. Like I’d shoved my foot into an animal carcass. It was cold and slimy. But then Hank said something I didn’t catch.
“What was that?” I said.
“I said, ‘How do they feel?’”
“They aren’t…”
That’s weird. I was going to complain, but the wetness and coldness had given way to a deep sense of comfort. They were no longer cold. Or was I remembering things wrong again? They felt amazing.
I walked away from Hank without ever answering his question. I was eager to see how they performed during my morning jog.
I started running, and they were a dream. They were hands-down the most comfortable shoes I’d ever worn.
Maybe their advertisement pitch wasn’t just hyperbole.
I could feel the heat of the asphalt through the sole, but not excessively so. I remembered the little informational sheet that I only skimmed. The shoes were responsive, supportive, and comfortable! My feet felt cradled.
What more could a runner want?
The little informational sheet read:
NEW! Bonding gel is now implanted in the insoles! No more fuss!
Weird marketing strategy the company used to pull you in. As much as I loved these shoes, I was tempted to send them back when I let myself into my apartment after my morning run.
Satisfaction guaranteed or triple your money back.
The shoes weren’t cheap. But neither were they especially expensive. I sat on my easy chair and leaned forward to unlace them. I would decide later about returning them for the tidy little profit of almost $200.
Still, these are damn comfortable…
The thought trailed off as I studied my new shoes.
The laces were gone. My socks were gone. There was no border between my lower leg and where the shoe should be.
Or was!
What the hell?
I tried to find some seam or edge that I could push my finger into and pry the shoes off my feet. I was freaking out. But there was no longer a clear point of separation where my legs ended and the shoes began. When I touched the body of the shoes, I could feel it as though I was touching my skin! When I felt the sole of the shoe, I could feel it as well, but it was muted.
The shoes had bonded to my body!
Or did my feet like the shoes so much that they integrated themselves into the pair?
I remembered the website advertisement and grimaced.
The ad copy was a simple ham-fisted expression.
The last shoes you will ever wear.
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Stories by Shawn 