If the SHOE FITS
Noah went missing. Panting as I jogged, I reached my left turn down Bow Avenue before I realised. I glanced back and there, by a garden wall, stood my running mate, with an abandoned trainer in his hand.
‘Are you sniffing strange shoes again, Noah?’ I joked, as I trotted back to his side.
I could tell it wasn’t an ordinary trainer. He did tend to rattle on about makes and models of running shoes when we went for our evening run twice a week after work.
In our shared office, he’d offered to ‘motivate me’ into doing some exercise. Since I kept overflowing my skirt, I thought I’d better say yes.
‘I think it belongs to… her,’ he said, now in the street.
‘Her? Oh, her. The girl in red?’ She usually ran by, going the other way, her brunette ponytail swinging, barely a drop of perspiration on her brow.
‘This could be it,’ he added. ‘This could be how I meet her properly. I’ll return her shoe like… Prince Charming.’
He’s a hopeless
