The Points of Our Boots

We stood, shivering, in the carpark of the Palace in St Kilda. We stood in a circle, so as to protect ourselves from the wind heaving and blowing our fringes out of place. We all looked down at our feet - myself, my boyfriend, his lover and her sister. "Look at our boots..." she cooed. The end of their boots were polished and pointed, so as to add a few extra centimetres to the end of their toes. The end of my boots were rough, square and scuffed. They were cheap and I wish I could have done something to hide them. I could have dropped my rucksack on the ground to obscure the faux-pas, but I didn't have the sense to think of it in time. I just had to stand there while they carried out their examination.

No one said anything about my shoes, but it was a dead giveaway. They must have known I was faking it.