My shoe closet, and why I sometimes just leave the door open
I've pretended for a long time that this is just order. White facades, LED light, everything in its place. In truth, it's the room I go to when the day doesn't have an opinion yet and I need one.
On the left, the heels, row by row. Black, nude, a bit of silver, at the bottom the red ones, which you don't put on by mistake. Above them, the sentence on the wall that I hung myself: Shoes make a better day. With the little heart underneath. Sounds harmless. It's not always.
In the middle, the boots hang. Overknee, smooth, one in nude, one with the snake pattern that I only take out when I know someone is looking closer than necessary. Below them, the shorter ones, brown and black, for days when I want to look resolute without saying it.
On the right, the Louboutin box stands so that you have to read the name, and above it, the one from Jimmy Choo. Not as a trophy. Rather as a reminder that I give myself some evenings.
I sometimes leave the drawers slightly open. Flats for the morning, something glittering for later, a pair that I touch and then put back because the evening hasn't been decided yet. The carpet is soft enough that I can stand in front of it barefoot and still feel like I'm half-dressed.
It's not a museum. It's my closet. I open the doors, the light turns on warmly, and for a moment, the day belongs to me. Which pair I choose, I don't always reveal. Sometimes it's enough that I know before I leave the apartment.
