Wendyrella in boots.
That’s what we marked on the kitchen column, while drinking champagne, and waiting for turkey.
My boots immortalized, along with me, until a coat of white paint.
Later, alone, and down to the end, we couldn’t get them off fast enough. You ripped the zipper apart and threw the boot to the side.
“That can never be fixed”, I thought for a millisecond, “but I have others”.
We broke those two months later.
I just bought new ones. Images of you/me/us were in my head while I tried them on. I blushed. This is the first time I can recall being sad that a new purchase will not be destroyed.