She now held onto this final pair of slippers- the only ones that would be available until December- tightly in her tired arms.

“Margie. What are you waiting for? Bring me another pair. I feel like the ball of my foot is being shredded away.”

She placed the slippers gingerly on the desk.

“Mr. Sloan. That’s the last pair until December.” Her glasses were beginning to glide down the fine sheet of sweat that had suddenly developed on her nose. She quickly pushed them back into place.

“Nonsense. They know these are the only pair I wear. It’s a department store. It’s their job to make wares available to their customers. When I need slippers, they better have slippers.”

She silently shifted her stance and popped a new knot in the root of her back. “The lady at the store said they won’t have any more available until the end of December.”

Suddenly, Mr. Sloan’s desk was clear of his ink blotter, his pen holder, his cigar lighter, his mountain of piled articles, receipts, forms and scratch paper with scribbled notes. All lay beside his walnut desk. A small wisp of dust lingered.

“Well find another place that has them, Margie. This is unacceptable. Absolutely unacceptable! I need those slippers. How can I be expected to save my little girl if I can’t even comfortably exist?! I am a very powerful man and I have needs and one of those needs is a pair of slippers! I need them Margie! I need them! Get them for me right now!” His fist bounded on the waxed surface of his desk with each point of emphasis. His bloodshot eyes eerily disappeared and reappeared behind the rapid blinking of his darkened lids.

The sole of Margie’s feet began to burn. The sensation quickly flooded the sockets of her hips. She felt the small amount of flesh on the mound of her thumb get pinched by the sharp edges of her well-manicured nails. Her glasses slipped.

A quivering hand replaced her spectacles. But instead of returning to its usual position passively tucked into the small of her back, her hand formed a small fist and slammed against the top of Mr. Sloan’s walnut desk.

The resulting echo caused such a surge in the environment that the linen window treatments rustled. Margie’s glasses slipped from the sudden force of movement. She yanked the chain they dangled from around her neck and flung them to the ground, the two small seashell accents skipped across the floor.