Red stilettos entwine my feet, drops of blood at the end of black shrouded legs. A gasp emanates from the door; she's staring at my shoes.
"I hope you're not going to wear those."
I point my toes, stretch my calves. "I wore them on our first date."
And the first time we made love, I remember.
She struggles for words. "I don't think they're appropriate. You shouldn't wear them."
"I think I should." I move on the floor in a solitary slow dance, annoyed with her.
"They were his favorite. I think he'd like it."
She clenches her fist, her emotions beginning to rise. "I don't want you to wear those shoes. I don't think you should make a mockery of his memory."
I glare at her. "Don't speak to me about memories, they're all I have left."
Tears begin to form in her eyes as she growls very slowly, "You are not going to wear those shoes. Not today."
I tense, ready for a fight.
"Don't tell me what to do, I'm burying my husband!"
"AND I'M BURYING MY SON!" she roars.
I look towards the floor; submitting, yielding defeat, I remove the shoes and put them back in the box. A song about angels and red shoes dances in my head. I slip on a pair of worn, black flats and follow her out of the room, my head bowed. The shoes repose in their box, waiting for a more appropriate time to be embraced.