She decided when she got there and they ask how it happened, she’d flash that veneered smile, and quip, “Oh, I was just minding my business when . . . ”
But the truth was, she’d twisted her foot because the Red Bottomed heel—which she had ditched most of last month’s rent and groceries to buy—had wedged itself in some ill-placed metallic drainage grill, making a mockery of her peacock-strut down The Avenue.
She’d cocked her head to one side the instant she’d discerned it was happening. “Really? Here? Like this?” She’d wanted to ask. “I have an audition. And a date tomorrow.” More importantly, the shoes were expensive. And she wondered if there would be an unwelcome memento in the form of a scratch. It was a certified State of Emergency. So, she did something she hadn’t done in a while, ever since her break up with Vance.
She bent over.
And yanked. Twisted. And pulled.
Just like with Vance, it was a lot of work. And, just like with Vance, she misjudged her strength and the momentum.
Damn. Those experiences had left her disgruntled and him, panting and limp bizkited. But this time, her mouth formed that coveted O. Blood came to her head in a rush and doe-eyes, destined for to win awards, widened; pupils dilated.
It would have been amusing. Even comical. If it weren’t for the fact she was free-falling into a busy street with an onslaught of on-coming vehicles whose drivers wouldn’t recognize any of her C-listed commercials.
Her too-pricey-and-too-high-heel was caught in the vice grip of the dam metal drainage bar in the middle of the pavement. She was free falling into the street. And there was nothing she could do to prevent it.
Those were the sounds of her ankle breaking, her head hitting the pavement and her skull splitting.
She’d never make it to those damn auditions.
“So,” she imagined the angels asking, tapping pen against clipboard. “How’d it happen?”
She’d reconsidered. She wouldn’t bother lying.
And remembering all those antics with Vance, she’d probably end up in the other place anyway.