He wriggled down and lay comfy on his stomach. Blades of squashed grass indented his elbows, as he watched those six petite feet skip on by. The movement alone kindled the wind to blow softly onto his face each time they passed. What a feeling their energies would arouse in his tummy, curiosities and wants could fill him up to the brim, more so than the jam sandwich that was currently pitted there. 

And again, they skipped passed with laughter and tiny chatter, carrying the breeze with them.

A red pair, a red pair of plastic shoes belonging to two of the six feet. He wasn't interested in red, did not care for the brassy tone of their skip. A green pair next, not emerald green no these shoesies were not, they were envy of the blue green and their offbeat skip left no desire of the want that still was to reside in his tummy.

So he waited, waiting on her shoes, the shoes of an angel he would say, when telling his mother after the very first sighting of her in them. Gracefully walking with a tip to the toe along the grey wall outside of the bakery and there they were...

Blue-ballet-shoes, the most beautiful shoes in his eyes, even with the scuffs and their little left bow that was hanging on by a stitch. He'd been watching that stitch for weeks hoping that said bow would somehow fall off, unnoticed, into his hands for the chance of a hero's rescue! The bow remained strong to his disappointment. No heroes today, his thoughts.

And then something, something he couldn't quite make out on such a blinding sunny day...

A shoe? A shoe! A shoe skipped-flipped and now falling from the sky. An opportunity landing right in front of him.

Heaps of high pitched giggling surrounded his ears, but oh boy, he did not laugh, this was no laughing matter. As the shoe that landed was his angels shoe, more than just the loose tease-stitch bow that he had earlier bargained for. His initial reaction was to inhale the shoes scent simply to get a taste of her smell, but as shoe sniffing goes, he was wise not to. His second more rational thought (considering the importance of this shoe) settled in his pocket.

Now you are thinking, pocket?

You see, it is what he remembered lay inside this pocket of his, that helped him fix his roguish slingshot earlier that day, which helped him glue her little left bow back on securely.

A shadow shied over the mended blue shoe that he so proudly held in his hands. He looked aside the shoe to the ground and to his preference the shadow did not belong to red or green never to be seen, suiting him just fine. Upon realising the silhouette belonged to his bijou, now a barefoot angel with the most pretty painted toenails, a swell of warmth and nervousness began to grow and pit alongside his jam sandwich.

He looked up to her pale face, kissed with a hint of freckles sprinkled across her cute as a button nose and he smiled. There was no denying her gratitude as she placed a gentle kiss on the side of his hot cheek and slowly put on her shoe, admiring her safe bow.

Between the day her blue shoes passed him by until the day she passed, she never did tell him that she purposely and carefully picked at that bow of hers, knowing he was laying on the grass, watching, waiting for it.

Waiting for her.