I walked up the narrow, steep staircase leading to our downtown office door this morning, surprised to find an abandoned shoe. A man’s shoe. An athletic man’s shoe. Laced up, and everything. Unmatched. Unpaired. Unaccompanied. Just sitting there- or standing there. Can shoes sit? I don’t know. Four steps down from our locked, glass door. It was pointed up. Towards that door. Alone. Like me. Was this a sweet practical joke from one of my odd and endearing friends? As I unlocked our door and saw the smear of blood on the porch, I figured probably not. You should have heard the cop’s questions on the phone. Poor guy, who gets calls like this? So there’s this Cinderella shoe, I mean, you know, like there’s one shoe, on our steps, and there’s blood. I don’t know if it’s even worth calling, but I just thought you guys should know. What do you even do with that? We don’t know. We just lock our doors and text our friends this odd photo and somewhere out there, is a man with one size 11 shoe, and a dream in his heart.
