I wanted to pet it.

Perhaps, if I caressed the shoe, I might like myself better. I have found it calming, from time to time, to make a small gesture expressing abjection, and to really get in touch with feelings of loneliness and shame.

I crawled toward the shoe. It was Hiram’s right shoe, not the left. It rested beside its mate inside the open metal cage formed by the walker’s tubular framework. The shoe was a foot away from me. I was flat on my stomach. One dozen broken lilies were in my hands. These flowers were barely more than denuded stems. The stems were bent and their fallen petals lay scattered across the carpet. I inched forward. I suppose you could say I was sneaking up on Hiram’s shoe. I dragged myself along; I stayed low; I tracked my quarry. The carpet’s rank musk smelled delicious. I breathed in the smell. The shoe waited. It seemed to regard me. Tiny impressions punched in the uppers made lacy, delicate arabesques, heavenly swirls in the black leather.

Such thick soles.

I crawled closer—near enough to kiss the shoe, almost. My breath fogged its shine. Light dust showed on its toe. Suddenly Hiram’s foot inside the shoe moved and I feared for an instant that I had charged too close too fast and would frighten the shoe away. But the shoe stayed put. Its movement was slight—only Hiram stretching, redistributing his weight, getting comfortable. Naturally, Hiram’s slightly moving foot caused the shoe’s uppers to stretch and expand (much in the manner of a languid animal’s leathery back, whenever the animal shifts its weight or stretches after a nap), and this movement, the shoe’s breathy dilation, seemed to me so absolutely lifelike—and of course it was; Hiram’s old foot was alive and kicking, as they say—so adorable and beguiling, so downright friendly, that I began to feel warm all over. I felt happy. I felt, in my happiness, able to do what I had crawled across the unclean floor to do: I dropped the lilies, reached out, and stroked, with my hand, Hiram’s wing tip.

It seemed to like this. I gave it a squeeze. I felt Hiram’s foot buried inside. The foot made subtle nuzzling motions, as if responding to my touch. And with each soft nuzzle from the shoe, I felt an accompanying wave—these were physical sensations that originated deep in my stomach—of pleasure. I became aware of a wonderful feeling of peacefulness and ease that I can describe only as a general loosening of bodily tensions. The miniature waves of pleasure feathered out along my arms and legs, and I noticed in myself a capacity for deeper breathing; each exhalation of rotten air became a gentle evacuation of the stresses and strains of life. How relaxing it was to lie down on the floor. In my right hand was Hiram’s black shoe. Here were Hiram’s trouser legs, and here were the walker’s slender posts. Lily petals resembled water flowers drifting across the dark and tranquil rug. Cigarette ashes rose up beside chair legs; the ash piles looked to me like volcanoes. Convoys of brothers’ feet passed in every direction. I could see every type of footwear, loafers and canvas sneakers, lace-up oxfords and water-resistant work boots, expensive running shoes and cowboy and riding boots and moccasins and floppy bedroom slippers, sandals worn with socks, you name it, dozens of shoes stamping to and fro; and I could feel, as I lay breathing deeply on our threadbare carpet, the mingled repercussions of everyone’s steps, the mild shock waves echoing through the floor and the rug.