Sneakers
by John Brooke
Bart is a
stunning marathon runner, a true athlete, and
winner. I was another of his bumbling envious
followers. Like so many other girls, I worshiped
the ground he ran on.
To him,
I’m one more idolizing teenage hormone
blossoming around his sweaty ego. Each one of us
babes hoped to garner a lopsided handsome grin,
every time he was crowned with the Laurel leaves
of victory.
Vainly
yearning to get him to notice the fabulous me, I
sought to capture his attention by winning a
significant marathon, I would standout on the
Victor’s platform. Couldn’t help but
see and fall in love with me. It’s
clear.
Run in his
shoes. The rest of the plan will follow. While
the other worshippers fawned over his latest
victory, I checked out his shoe size. Never
realized his feet were neat, petite for a male,
Bart’s runners were a fitting match to
my female foot. What to do? Easy steal them of
course. More politely, simply borrow a pair. So
many in his collection, he wouldn’t miss
them.
The almighty
marathon race day arrived. I poised at the start
wearing his magic shoes. At the crack of the
starters pistol, we flew. The 26.2 miles blurred
by. My spirit soared high above the struggling
body. I felt as though the heels sprouted
angel wings. In a haze, I breasted the tape
knowing I had won, and collapsed.
As I came to,
the hero massaged my legs and stared clear blue
eyed into twin bloodshot orbs. He helped me to
stand up at the Winner’s platform and
receive the crowning aegis of Laurel leaves. As
the Victory ceremony ended he bent down, I
thought, in a humble gesture of recognition.
Silently he unlaced his runners off both feet.
The hero departed with his shoes, and one of his
chicks, leaving me barefooted and alone.
A run in
Bart’s sneakers had made me a winner, for a
brief moment in time.
Now, I think
of him often, as I nurse his gifts of
Planter’s Warts and a severe case of
Athletes Foot.
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