A Foot for a Loafer

Routine

She usually wears an almost worn-out pair of penny loafers shoes that have walked miles of achievement. The leather is worn stiff, the cushions torn out in places, but they remain her greatest luxury and only protection against the unforgiving steps of this place.

Above those hardened shoes, hidden beneath black pants, she wears a clean cotton sock, about 26cm in length. It never clings too tightly, nor slouches too loosely above her ankle. Her socks are never just one color they vary: argyle, checkered, sometimes even plaid. They are bright, fun, expressive. But always folded quietly under her pants, never loud enough to draw attention.

Beneath those socks, on the curve of her Achilles heel, sits a small piece of black electrical tape. She plasters it there each morning, a quiet armor against the chafing leather bite of her loafers. On some days if the pain is worse or the walk is longer she doubles the tape, layering relief where she can afford it.

But most days, it’s just one piece. Not out of comfort, but out of caution. The roll of tape might run out soon, and she still has far to go.