Short Short Story: Eugene's Shoes

Eugene made his annual walk to the Old Mutual offices on Cilliers Street without paying much attention to the shiny shopfronts that would have distracted any other pedestrian. It was as though he had been born the incarnate of a Dickensian factory boss: time ought not to be wasted and dithering was never an option. The purposeful nature of his life could be seen in his shoes, the old faithfuls who had seen the inside of Barksole stores more than he cared to remember, with their toffee hue now verging on green, like toads emerging from mud. He could not fathom wearing another pair: each toe was embedded in its own special groove and suitably cushioned by the latest latex layer he’d had fitted. Eugene hadn’t had the heart to repair the fraying around the ankle of the left shoe: he’d got that after being caught in a puddle on the day of Edwin’s birth; happy memories came with imperfections as his mum always said. Not that he could remember his mum so much anymore, but he could remember her shoes – black babydolls he’d have to polish before her performances for the wireless dramas. He raised his head as he neared his stop, remembering that the soles squeaked ever so slightly on linoleum and laminate floors. But he wouldn’t need to worry about that today: this branch of Old Mutual preferred carpets.