I was always slow when it came to social conventions.I used to crawl into the crowded walk-in closet of my parent's bedroom. Racks of clothes hung above me, dull orange light leaking in from cracks in the sliding doors, and the floor was lined with rows of shoes, lending the tiny room that leathery, shoe-store scent.My mother's clothes and shoes took up nearly all the closet space. What little clothing my father had must've been stored in a small wooden dresser that stood like airon safe near their bed. Inviolable.Hiding in the quiet, tidy, warm sanctuary of the closet, originally just seeking solace from a loud and angry world, I started to notice the shoes. I'd slide my tiny pink foot into an enormous pair of black patent high heels that seemed to absorb my entire leg.Women were beautiful -- goddesses. I knew that from theearliest age. I never went through that mythical phasewere girls are hated, despised, and infected with cooties.Women have always stood on a pedestal before my. J. had put it behind my ears, leaving little ringlets on the side."You can't stand the dress though, right?"The driver gave Jacob a sympathetic look, then headed around to thedriver's door. "No, you look great," he smiled awkwardly, obviouslyhiding his distaste, "and now we'll finally have time to talk." God, the'we need to talk' line. I nearly vomited.The drive was a short one. We were only parked around the back of thecinema, the whole thing was just for the cameras. Jacob was sayingsomething about being sorry for not calling sooner. I didn't hear him.Knowing he wanted to break up with me, although can you break up whenyou're not really together? That and nerves about being in front of thepress meant I need all my concentration not to throw up.The bulbs flashed. It was like being in front of a firing squad. I stoodthere, not easy to do in those heels, and smiled. I could feel Jacob'sarm around me pulling me in tight. Fuck me, here we go.I felt Jacob moving me forward. All my.
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