Manolo Blahniks are not made for running

By Pablo Libedinsky

“You don’t remember me, but I remember you,” the man said to Rosemary as he approached her table.  

She lifted her blue eyes from the laptop, took a sip of coffee and looked at him arching her eyebrows.

“No. I really don’t remember you.  What’s your name?”

“Do you mind if I sit?”

She hesitated.  It could be dangerous but then he looked harmless and she knew how to take care of herself.  

“Go ahead.” She waved at the chair in front of her.

The man sat down, put the leather courier bag he was carrying on his lap and put his arms on the small table.  He was very close to Rosemary.  She sat back taking another sip.

“I want to refresh your mind,” he said.

She just looked at him in silence, trying to place his face, but couldn’t.  He was in his 60’s, clean-shaven and a shy smile creased his face.  

He was very well dressed.  His shoes were shined. 

When he spoke, she noticed a mouthful of very bad teeth. She always noticed people’s teeth.

“I saw you for the first time downtown, on the square, carrying shopping bags from Bloomingdale’s and Saks Fifth Avenue. They must have been heavy because you had trouble walking. “

She remembered that shopping trip but kept silent.

“You wore high heels, black…”

She interrupted him by putting down the cup with force and shutting down the laptop with a loud noise.

“Please,” he said, raising his hand. “I’m not a stalker and don’t want anything from you.”

Rosemary dragged her chair backwards. She stood up ready to leave.

“Please,” he repeated.

She hesitated—then sat back down.

“Then you tripped and fell. Some of the bags opened and things scattered on the ground.”

All true, Rosemary thought. 

“I wanted to help… but… wasn’t able to…”

“Some people helped me,” she interrupted.

“Yes.  But it wasn’t me.  You got up, gathered your things and went on your way. I just looked at you.”

Rosemary was uncomfortable but also curious.  She looked around the café.  It was full of people, so she felt safe.  

As long as he doesn’t follow me when I leave, she thought.

“I didn’t see you for a week,” the man continued. “I kept looking, until you appeared again, crossing the square—loaded with bags.  Blue high heels this time.”

Rosemary involuntarily looked at her shoes.  She was wearing black high heels.  She looked at her watch.

“I’m sorry,” she said as she stood up, “but I have to go.”

“Well… good bye,” he said with a shrug.

A week later, she sat at the same café and the same man came in, said hello and asked if he could sit at her table.  

Rosemary waved her hand at the chair without a word. Same suit, same shoes, same bag.

“I saw you a few more times,” he started. “Always at the square, always carrying bags and always so well-dressed.”

Rosemary smoothed her black hair.  She resisted the urge to look at herself.  She really should have stopped this ‘conversation’, but she sensed a point and waited.  

“Then one day you didn’t walk across the square—you ran.  It had been raining and the pavement was slippery and you fell…again.  But now it looked bad. 

You hit your face and had some blood on it.  Your hands were scratched and bleeding.  Your clothes were very dirty and your shoes scuffed.  Manolo Blahniks are not made for running on wet ground…”

“Look,” Rosemary interrupted. “I really don’t need a lecture.”

“Sorry.  But you know, this time I helped you too.”

She opened her eyes in surprise.

“Yes, I did.  After getting you on your feet, some people sat you on a bench. I handed you your bags and purse.”

“I didn’t see you,” she said.

“I know.  People don’t see the homeless.  I’m used to it.”

“What?” She leaned forward, frowning.

“You are homeless?  I don’t believe it!”  She gesticulated at him.  “I don’t believe it,” she repeated, shaking her head.

He smiled and continued. “You had dropped your bags and your purse, so I went to get them.  I noticed that the purse was open—and your wallet had fallen out.”

“You took it!”  Rosemary interrupted, slapping the table with her hands. 

The man raised his hands.

“Yes, I brought the bags and the purse to you, took the wallet and left.”

She got up with clenched fists.  Her face was red, her lips tight.

The man opened the courier bag, took a leather wallet and showed it to her.

“Please, sit down.  Here is your wallet.  Look inside. I didn’t take anything.”

Rosemary did.

She held the wallet, stroked it a little and rummaged inside, taking a quick look at her credit cards, driver license and other documents she knew should be there.

She took a few bills and held them.

“Look,” she said, “I don’t know what to say but here…”

“No, thank you,” the man interrupted, raising his hand. “I’ve already been rewarded.”

“Really?” She frowned.

“Yes.  Apparently you forgot but you also had a lottery ticket in your wallet.”

Rosemary put the bills on the table and looked again in the wallet.

“True.  Did you take it?”

“Yes…”

She opened her mouth, but he stood up, slung the courier bag over his shoulder and headed for the door.  

He stopped next to her and said: “Maybe this doesn’t mean anything to you, but it’s a fantastic feeling to win a million dollars.”

And walked out.

Pablo Libedinsky is a retired computer programmer living in San Francisco, California.

He wrote a few stories when he was 12 years old and then stopped, taking up writing again as an adult.

His work has appeared in Down in the Dirt.