![]() ![]() Slide my feet into my boots and pull the zippers. I know they’re there, but I can’t reach them.Īll I have to do is walk to the door. The boots stand tall and proud beneath my coat at the end of the hall. I’m still staring at my feet, encased in the thick socks I always wear with my flat boots because I tend to be between sizes and I’d opted to go up a half in them. ![]() I slump on to the stairs, sit on the third step from the bottom and try to swallow. I keep my eyes on the floor, watching my feet slide across the wooden boards I’d sanded, so painstakingly, only a month earlier. Tingles race up my arms, like tiny electric shocks. Somewhere between the kitchen and the front door I become aware of a seed of doubt in my throat. They match my hat – by chance, but I like it. My hair is freshly washed and straightened my lips are glossed. My bag on the kitchen table contains everything I need for a day at the office. My trench coat is hanging on the hook by the front door, my red hat stuffed in its pocket. ![]() I’ve got six minutes to walk to the train station, plenty of time if I wear my flat boots. ![]()
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