They all look.
You know it.
It must be the shoes. Chic Jimmy Choos, four inches of glamor and comfort that make you feel like you're sashaying down the catwalk instead of down the sidewalk. You love the matching bag, but you know it's not the bag they're noticing.
No, it's your legs.
Your face is cool and impassive, though you're grinning from ear to ear on the inside. The Choos were the first part of your outfit you picked out, only later finding the flouncy fuchsia skirt that set them off so well, its light cotton drape allowing just the barest peep at your knees and lower thighs.
Above that, your criss-cross top with a keyhole right between your breasts emphasizes all the right curves, draping gently around the parts you want softened. You covered most of that up with your work jacket today, now draped chicly over your arm. With your hair up and pierced with lacquered chopsticks, you looked great yet professional at work.
And they looked at you then, too.
From a construction site, you hear wolf whistles and catcalls, how cliché was that? As if they feel you need to be told how hot you look today, how your exterior is finally reflecting your interior, and you think, hey, why not give them a little thrill?
Turning gracefully, you take off your sunglasses, blow them a kiss from where you are. You notice, as they applaud, that most of them are older, graying with bellies that should topple them from their scaffoldings and beams. But a couple are really hot, guys you'd dance with if they were cleaned up a little and dropped into a suit.
Okay, enough fun. Dropping your glasses, you turn and put just a little more sway into your walk. Those Choos make it easier, giving your normally flat walk a special sashay that you would find it hard to imitate on your own. You smile at the Wall Street type who openly stares at you and smiles back.
Curly dark hair, blue eyes, decent body. Not bad. You can do better.
When a pudgy, balding guy does the same, you allow yourself the luxury of an eyeroll – he won't see behind the glasses anyway. To be nice, you smile, but then hurry on.
Your destination is the club at the beach, down the boardwalk right around the corner. You wonder if HE is there, if you'll talk to him or coolly ignore him, how it will be.
The Jimmy Choos make a hollow sound as you walk down the boardwalk, a rhythmic tap that somehow evokes sexy. Beyond the walkway, the beach and the ocean beckon. But at the end of the walk, the club. Its cool interior blows air at you as you get to the door, and you take off your sunglasses so you can see in the dim glow of neon.
Your skin, lightly sheened with perspiration, is instantly chilled, but glowing. And right there, at the bar, holding a drink in one hand and looking utterly stunned, it's HIM. The smooth operator. Staring at you.
His timing is utterly off tonight, but after a moment or two he slides out of his stool, pulls out the one next to him, and looks at you hopefully. You allow him to take your hand and support you into the stool.
His hand is warm, just as you knew it would be, matching those eyes that can't seem to take themselves off you. Yes, this will definitely be your night.
Sometimes, you think it's just the Jimmy Choos.
But you know it's all you. Shoes are only a perfect accessory.
