Georgia paced around the room, shoe in hand. She was looking for her vape in her boyfriend’s car when she stumbled across a sparkly, blue, size 11 platform heel. She had left for spring break to go visit her grandmother in Puerto Rico and when she came back, she finds one heel. Who even leaves behind one shoe? Did she walk out with a limp? What a wannabee Cinderella move. She knocked over a vase accidentally. Dead wet flowers spread across the checkered floor and that sparked something inside of her. She pushed over Frizz’s desk, making a hole in that cheap gypsum board wall. She called Frizz ready to cuss him out, but it was going straight to voicemail.
“What’s your freaking problem dude? I leave town for one week and you’re already messing around with other women? Whose heel was that, Frizz? Call me back before I burn down your house!” she said.
She went back inside her soon to be ex-boyfriends house and didn’t wait for a call back. Georgia gathered all of Frizz’s clothes from the closet and put them in a pile in the living room. She pulled out the lighter she always carried around in case her friends forgot theirs and lit his clothes on fire. As she thought about what she would tell the police, a sense of Déjà vu hit. When she was just nine years old, she had witnessed her mother burn her fathers clothes, just like her. I guess arsonists run in the family. She didn’t let that bother her too much, good people do crazy shit all the time. Plus, he deserved it, right?
The fire had expanded, the curtains and the rug were basically ashes. A faint voice was heard screaming in the distance, but she ignored it, she was used to hearing things that weren’t there. She walked outside and lit a cigarette. Her phone rang and she quickly answered it.
“Babe, I just heard your voicemail. What are you talking about?” he said.
“I’m talking about the fact that I found a heel in the backseat of your car,” she replied.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Georgia. What heel?”
“Don’t play stupid, Frizz,”
“I literally have no idea what you’re going on about.”
“Okay cool, well your house is on fire,” she added.
“What? Georgia you better be kidding.”
“Georgia, please tell me you didn’t burn my house down,” he asked hopefully.
“Bad news—” she said.
“Jesus, Georgia!” he yelled. “Is my mom, okay? What is wrong with you?”
She hung up the phone and the fire was already massive. His mom? There’s no way she was in there, she would’ve come out. She brushed it off and finished her cigarette, putting it out on the moist ground. As she was about to grab her keys, police lights filled her vision, followed by a fire truck and Frizz’s car. The cops ran and tackled Georgia holding her head down against the ground, while the fire fighters hosed the house down before entering.
“Why would you do this? This makes no sense!” Frizz shouted, crying.
Georgia couldn’t answer. The police officer was hand cuffing her while she laid there. Instead, she was asking herself how she ended up in that situation again. They pulled her up and Frizz got closer.
“What is your problem, Georgia?”
“Whose heel was in your car, Frizz?” she asked.
“What heel?” he responded.
“The sparkly blue one,” she answered. His face turned bright red; his eyes popped out of his head from shock. Right then, the fire fighters began bringing someone out in a stretcher, a white cloth covered their body, but they knew who that body belonged to.
Frizz shouted at Georgia, trying to get closer to her but failed when the police officers separated them. They grabbed on to Georgia, walking her to the car before Frizz could try to hurt her.
As they were about to close her door, Frizz yelled, “They were my heels.”
Is that a sex thing?
Patricia Caro is a latina writer from Puerto Rico. When she’s not writing she spends her time designing clothes and accessories. Follow @pmcarocruz on twitter.
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