Lost Shoe Anthologies 002: Brown Loafer

Pete Walker. A solid American, white, male name. It conveyed predictability. It promised permeating dullness. He chose it for that reason. So nobody knew what lurked beneath his deceiving facade. 

Pete was putting the finishing touches on the contract he had spent the past one week perfecting. This would be the contract that earned him a promotion. Finally, the firm’s CEO would recognize his genius and immediately give him the corner office he deserved. The one with wall to wall windows overlooking the city 19 floors below. He could hire that sexy assistant he’s always wanted and start the torrid affair he’s always been striving for. Pete’s unsuspecting, and frankly indifferent, wife would be none the wiser. Even if she found out, Pete was pretty sure she wouldn’t care. Pete knew she was already sitting on the pool boy twice a week and that’s why the algae was overtaking the deep end. He’d fire Enrique but really, what was the point. Pete’s wife would sit on a stick shift if it looked at her the right way. Bitch. Pete hit “send” on the email right as his phone went off. A text. From his wife. What’s for dinner? You lazy cow! You sit at home all day, either on the couch or on Enrique and you want me to worry about dinner?! I have dinner for you. Pete sat back in his office chair and let day dreams of murder fill his mind. He had once made a living out of it but that was in his past life. He wasn’t sure he still had it in him, but he sure as shit could try. 

  Later that night, Pete slumped heavily onto the fake leather couch occupying his cavernous living room. He was tired. Murder really took it out of ya, ya know? Everything was cleaned and meticulously returned to its original spot. The bleach was mopped up and the wall repainted. All he had to do now was dispose. Dispose of the sack of organs he once called his wife. He hopped in his Lexus (don’t worry, it was a 1998, he wasn’t that well off) and headed towards the bay. The bay is a good spot to ditch a body, right? He couldn’t remember what the geographical definition of a bay was and what made it different from a shore but he figured he’d be all right. After he backed his car towards the water, he hopped out with ease. Lightened by the fact he’d have a small fortune once he cashed in her life insurance. Pete dragged the large tarp, taped at the seams like a morbid taquito, towards salvation. Bloop! The deed was done. He stood by, watching the water as he lit his cheap cigar. Attempted status symbol. Failed snobbery. Pathetic. As he inhaled (wait, do you inhale cigars?), he saw his wife’s death roll bob above the surface. What. The. Fuck. Oh shit. He had to flee before he was spotted. He threw his shit cigar in the water and leapt back in his Lexus, carrying a new mental burden: 25 to life. Pete drove like a bat out of a light canister towards home. At the first red light he encountered, he lowered his face into his hands. Peeping through his fingers, he saw the blood on his brown loafer. He ripped his right shoe off and threw it out the window, lobbing it as hard as he could muster towards the median. It hit the guardrail with a thud and landed in the road side debris like a discarded dream. A discarded life. The light turned green and Pete hit the gas with his socked foot. 


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