Put Yourself In His Shoes の小説・ストーリー

I don't have whole day to sit here and waste my time. After hearing his last statement the girl understood he was damn serious about his words and he didn't seem the person who will bluff for no reason. Slowly she trailed her gaze to his expensive shoes which were shining so much that she could see her own scared self in it. If she would be honest, with herself the stains were really ruining the beauty of his shoes.

he said, losing some of that professional mask of his. “Don’t judge a bitch until you’ve walked a mile in her shoes,” I sneered, ready to kick him where the sun doesn’t shine. Perhaps this was a mistake? I was shivering on the inside, as fear was slowly clouding my judgment. I wanted to scream. I felt sick…

“You haven’t fallen in love, Teresa.” But I’m falling right now. So I understand. “Do we have to undergo the same situation for me to understand you?” I thought I’m so whipped that I even saw his eyes spark after I said those words. “It’s never a requirement for people to share the same experience for them to understand people. Put yourself into their shoes. You’ll know what they're feeling.”

My chest ached with the truth of it. But still, that tiny, stubborn part of me, the part that had made the deal in the first place, clung to the “semi-functional human being” part. It was more than I’d ever had before. “Understood,” I whispered, the word barely audible. “Good,” he said, a hint of that familiar smugness returning. “Then the first lesson starts now. Shoulders back. Stop staring at your shoes. You look like you’re being led to your own execution. It’s not a good look.”

"That's the entire charm. Hundreds of strangers' feet. Very grounding." He rents the shoes. Red and green, comically large. He stares down at his own feet like they've personally betrayed him, and I take a photo before he can stop me. "Delete that." "Absolutely not." He's bad at this. Historically bad. He gutters the first two and stands there like the lane insulted his mother. "The floor's slanted," he says. "It isn't." "Something's slanted." By the fourth frame he throws hard enough that a kid two lanes over claps.

Autumn gave her a fake smile as she puts the stilettos back into her feet. "I'm talking about your dark eye bags, Rosie. And you're welcome." Even if she already turned her back from Rosie, she knows that the girl was fuming. She won this round. She walked out from the hall like a winner. She was finally at the parking lot. She was almost limping because her shoes were killing her. As soon as she was inside her car,she removed her shoes again and threw it at the back. She heaved a sigh of relief as she steps into her comfy sandals.

“It looks like fun.” I smile wide, “That’s the spirit!” I cheer, handing him his shoes. “Put these on.” “What for?” he asks, examining the shoes with a grossed-out look on his face. “Because you can only wear bowling shoes on the lanes. They get cleaned, don’t worry.” I take off my shoes, put them on the seat beside me and put on my bowling shoes. Julian looks around cautiously and then proceeds to change his shoes. Never in a million years did I think I would be introducing Julian Easton to ANYTHING, but here we are. Life certainly is full of surprises.

He narrowed his eyes on me. "Why don't I believe you?" he asked. I gasped. "Is that how you really think of me? You might have been rude and a total jerk to me all this while but I will never do something like that," I promised. "Why are you doing this?" he inquired. "I would have loved for someone to do this for me too," I responded with a small smile. "Would?" he asked. I realized what I had said. "I meant, if I was in your shoes, I would have loved for someone to do the same for me," I hurriedly replied. He turned towards the glass windows and began to clean.

I sat, clutching the shoe in my lap like a child caught misbehaving. He studied me in silence for a moment, the tension in the room stretching tighter than my nerves could handle. “Is this your idea of professionalism?” he asked finally, tone low, deliberate. “Throwing footwear at passing vehicles? Screaming in the street? Showing up to the office after hours looking like—” “I was upset--and I came back here because I couldn’t walk home barefoot,” I muttered. His jaw ticked. “Then you shouldn’t have thrown the damn shoe in the first place.”

But she gradually began getting used to it and then leaned more against him. “You’re getting better.” “That’s probably because I’m trying hard not to trip, fall and possibly land on my face.” “Oh?” “Yeah. It’d be embarrassing and the shoes aren’t making this easy.” “You don’t have to worry because…” He twirled her around and dipped her. “… I’m here to catch you if you fall.” He brought her back up. “Smooth,” She commented. “And you can take the shoes off if they’re not comfortable.” “Are you sure?”