Trailing Celia through the shoe section, Dan gnawed on his failure. If his current film project capsized, what would he do? He had other movie ideas, certainly, but probably not the requisite faith and energy to pursue them to their final ends. He would continue making ads, mostly likely, and maybe that would be all. It was ironic. As a younger man he had been disgusted by advertising. He had fretted and wrung his hands about the effects of commodification in mass culture. He had imagined his own work specifically as a revolt against advertising, his images unsalable, his notions of beauty beyond market forces. But here he was, an ad man. Some of his colleagues thought of the work as a form of art, but he refused to fool himself in that way. The incredible tracking shot of a table of Nestlé products might be technically ingenious, but it was not art. It never would be.

He wondered what Melissa, his wife, would think if the movie were to go away. Would she lose her respect for him? No, he decided. If anything, she would be happy the thing fell apart. In the early days his ambitions had been attractive to her. Part of their courtship had involved wild talk about the possible movie projects he might direct, absurd plotlines to write, ridiculous stunt castings to engineer. But that was far in the past. She was tired of waiting any longer, and they were well beyond the point where his artistic fulfillment meant anything to her. They had a kid. At this point, Melissa just wanted him to get back to work.

When Dan thought about it really coldly, he could see that no one in the entire world genuinely cared about the arc of his filmmaking career. No one, that was, besides himself, and possibly Guy.

Celia made some eccentric choices. She was drawn to a pair of gaudy cross-trainers with blinking lights in the soles, a pair of slick patent leather flats, and a pair of traditional, garnet-colored penny loafers. Dan instructed her to narrow the choices down, and she eliminated the cross-trainers. They had seemed unlike her anyway. And then they went to find the salesman.

The salesman was a wiry, rodent-like man, and he directed Celia to a bench near the cash register. He measured her feet, took her selections, returned carrying two boxes, and pulled up his stool. He sat down, tugging on his pant leg to reveal his black socks.

The salesman extended his hand, and Celia gave him her foot, allowing him to slide off the old shoes. He opened the first box and unwrapped the patent leather flats and slipped one and then the next onto her stockinged feet.

“How do they feel?” he said.

“All right,” she said hesitantly.