A pair of red stiletto shoes were on the kitchen table. It is said to be unlucky, of course, to put shoes on a table but Kate, a quick-tempered and outspoken, Aries dismissed such superstitions. What bothered her was the shoes themselves, so alien, so unlike anything she would wear.
She looked accusingly at her dreamy, unworldly Aquarius husband. “You must have known,” she wailed, “that I would never own shoes like that.”
“I gave the guy at the shoe repairers a ticket,” said Bill, in his tone of utmost reasonableness. “He gave me these.”
“I’m taking them back, this minute,” she yelled.
To her they represented all that she despised. Women, she believed, were equal to men. These five inch heeled, fine ankle-strapped, red shoes, turned women into teetering sex victims.
As she walked to the shops, a thought hit hard. Did her husband, in his heart of hearts, lust after the kind of woman who wore stilettos?
She saw, on the counter, her sensible, flat shoes and a pretty, dark-haired girl, not at all tarty, smiling at the shoemender. “My shoes are red, not like this at all.” Kate and she swapped shoes.
On the way home, Kate stopped off to do some shopping.
When Bill arrived home, that evening, she asked “Well, do you notice anything different?” He looked her over, from her feet, encased in new sexy, strappy, high heeled shoes to her eager smiling face. “Er …” he said hopefully. “You’ve had your hair done, is that it?”
Across town, the owner of the red shoes (a Scorpio) was writing a new chapter of her erotic novel, in which the heroine did something interesting to her lover, or was it her victim, with her stilettos. As she worked, she wondered when Bill would call.
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