Staccato clicks of heals in the parking lot, echoing against the cars. I hear them but see no one. It’s a late night, the drive way too long, the dawn too close at hand. I wonder why I always push the last night’s drive on a road trip into the earliest part of morning. Gone too long, I just want to come home. I’m never so happy to be in my home until I have left it.
There is that striking of heals again. Somewhere someone is walking. I can tell by the beat the shoes are high heels, probably stiletto width. It doesn’t sound like running, but a quick pace. Is this high heel wearer okay? I see no danger around me and my car. I came to the spot to rest, to sleep before I head out again. Seems safe. I still don’t see the owner, though the sound ricochets off the cars around me, towards me. Am I hearing heels? What else sounds like stilettos kicking it with the cement?
And there she is – a late night wonderer, coming across my path, high heel stiletto boots none-the-less. She sees me and her clacking turns into a shuffle – from toe to heal to heal to toe. The staccato pace gone. She passes, eyes weary of this gyrl sitting in her car – writing, and then as soon as she passes my view, her pace quickens and she is off again beating the pavement one pointed stiletto beat at a time.