I don't think the shoe guy likes me.  And it bothers me.

I've never had a shoe guy before.  But I've never really owned more than two pairs of shoes.  And then those would be worn to a point where the homeless were offering me theirs out of pity.  O how I miss and appreciate the well-worn: the second skin which was my pre-thirty way of clothing myself, safety pins and all! 

I've now had two shoe guys since living in Montreal.  The first, a jovial Colombian who never had me question his love for me as I dragged in bags of heeled boots and shoes better suited for the garbage than repair.  He received my things with gladness and chuckled alongside me at the impossibility of one person so little able to bring so much destruction to a simple heel in such a short time.  The inconvenience of location caused me to find this new guy located in the underground between the Guy-Favreau and Place Desjardins buildings.  I'm guessing Eastern European, around my age, and equipped with a stoic demeanor which reads only one thing: pure unadulterated disappointment in me and my ability to do what I do to my shoes.   
 
I don't know why I insist that this guy like me, let alone continue to patron his business.  I don't know why his opinion of me would matter at all!  Is it because he sees me at my barest moments, my most disorganized moments.  The moments squeezed in between other moments of work and school, therefore a rushed moment distressed.  He sees me doing the mundane, the simple list-crossing-offs and he sees me failing at it.  He sees me not leaving enough time for each of my activities, he sees me bringing in shoes months later than they should have been brought in, damaging the base structure of the shoe because of it.  He sees the lack of care I give to my things, and the frivolous ways I spend my money on something so impractical such as a 5 inch heeled shoe, never really worn, and yet still somehow damaged!  And then there are my cheap shoes, the attempted designer knockoffs, the fake leather.  My shoes and how I treat them seem to shout out all my secrets, revealing the holes in my character.  My failings.  My inability to care for me and my things properly.        

I try to get him to smile at me, a chuckle with a little downward head shake would be the all-time pipe-dream.  Alas, I can't even find a sparkle in his eye.  There's an acceptance which comes with laughter, kindness which comes with a smile, and I can't get either from my shoe guy.