Awoke to melancholy and my new alarm clock. I tried to shake it with constructive thoughts and mental jokes, but like that annoying refrain "Who let the dogs out," it just continued.

     The morning routine framed the plastic grin I wore so as not to discomfort the company around me. I dressed with the fake feel-good goal of putting something fetching together. even Even sported some snazzy five-dollar shoes from a thrift shop for five dollars.

     My friend Maya arose, handed me an extra copy of her key and walked me out the door. I was crashing with her while suffering through the torture society coyly calls "relationship problems." At four-second intervals, heading down the stairs, I relived the night my boyfriend unintentionally spewed out the venom of his rankled commitment to me, us. After hours of a heated inquisition, it finally came out that a certain pixie had made him all dreamy at the office, causing him to doubt our relationship. Well, I refused to be number two. Shaken and dejected, I left without saying a word.

     For weeks, an itching notion told me that something was emotionally askew, but I didn't allow myself to think about it. Then, in just a diminutive fraction of the time we'd been happily together, I lost my man, my home, my future, my heart and my soul. Oh, what misery had befallen me? My seemingly tidy life peeled open like an over-ripe banana and I was resigned to toss it into the garbage disposal.

     That morning, I stepped into the winter sun. The air was questionably fresh, and with the wind blowing dirt in my face, my fingers fighting the frigid degrees, and my coat not quite cozy enough to hold closer, I vowed to have a decent day, dammit.

     In a swift vigor, I powered my way seven blocks to the subway, passing yuppie families, suited up businessmen and senior citizens who've lived in the neighborhood since about 1943. The audience was to be expected on the Upper East Side. Along the way, I shunned mourning my old beloved routine, but I did wish I were back in my grungy Village.

     I arrived at the train to the scene of about a billion people scampering around the subway stairs. A man in a serious hurry not to have the door of the awaiting train shut with half of himself still on the platform cut my path through the mass. His knees practically hit him in the eyebrows as he barreled down the steps. Shuffle, shuffle went his buffed brown loafers and I was at the heels of his mad dash.

     Standing in the stagnant crowd of mid-week, the doors remained open as a booming announcement issued the decree of immediate service termination on that particular train (in less profound terms). So, not unlike the transfer of livestock, we shepherded back up the stairs into the not really so fresh air. Many rushed to the buses in a frenetic occasion to avenge the reprehensible train system for causing the delay. But never being one to find solace in a feverish crowd, I opted to walk to the half mile to the next closest subway. Not so bad. I psychologically pat myself on the back for dealing with the morning setback with grace amidst my present pretext for gloom.

     After mounting innumerable steps, I felt a bond with my fancy new shoes. They remained resilient as I ceremoniously broke them into life in the big, unpredictable city. I relied on them to move with me. They cuddled my feet, kept them warm, made them feel secure. At that point, my shoes were my only friends, stepping along at my own pace and singing a snappy tune to click, click, click, clioashhhh. What was that? I began to feel an unnatural sensation like an odd brushing on the ground. Strange intuition led me to believe that it was the soles peeling off the bottom of the shoe, but I stubbornly vetoed the notion and refused to look. I entering the F train station in utter denial.

     I soon realized that ignoring the shoe hunch was a big mistake, for while walking down the escalator, a blaring, disturbing flap came from the direction of my feet. I forced my eyes downward and witnessed a display of such embarrassment; I had to laugh just to displace myself from the fact that these were my own feet. Not only was I flapping noisily, but about 70% of the sole actually bent under my foot and was dragging upside behind my shoe. My suspicion of the evil peeling sole was confirmed. Though I have not the education nor desire to explain the physics of the dreadful event, I can boast a new and complete appreciation of the adage "You get what you pay for." Planted in a seat for the duration of the trip, I had nine long stops to mull the pathetic reality over and over in my head; my shoe was my relationship.

     Upon disembarking the train, the only way to have my stupid sole not flap in the breeze like a nautical flag behind my heel was to march through the streets like an SS soldier. This exploit brought even more attention to the farce of my foot. Not yet ready to give up, I tried to be enterprising and grabbed the elastic out of my frazzled hair and "ingeniously" tied it around the toe of my shoe. I naively believed that would suffice for the three blocks to the office, but with the morning already on its foul roll, after about four steps the rubber band sprung in full force right off the shoe into a black hole of the gutter.

     Brilliant, I was then marching through the streets with a bum sole and bad hair. I was determined to carry my problem with dignity down Lafayette. Impressed by my six steps of poise, I convinced myself that I could pull off the I-intend-for-my-shoe-to-be-like-this saunter, until two smart-asses vociferously yelled to me that my shoe was "broke" in the most impenetrable of Brooklyn accents. Thanks guys, I had no idea.

     Out of sheer providence, I managed to purchase my much-needed coffee and hard-boiled eggs without falling on my face or having an unknowing pedestrian step on the flowing soles. In the office I hoped that the situation with my shoe would explain itself. Not the case, as a chorus of "what happened to your shoe" filled the loft.

     I found a crazy glue pen, but could never get those stupid things to work and generally end up gluing appendages to each other or other uncomfortable things. But this time I avoided such misfortune as the thing was empty. Great, how the hell was I going to deal with this shoe?

     Perseverance sent me under the kitchen sink (where all obscure melding paraphernalia reside), and I rummaged through a toolbox, finding tile spackling, grouting fluid, wax, paste--basically every kind of bonding substance not conducive to shoe repair. Then, under a tattered ball of twine, I spot some rubber cement. .

     That night, with my sole securely adhered to the bottom of my shoe, I marched back into our apartment, determined to sift through the ugly emotions stocked in my heart—jealousy, rage—and find beneath that knot of anxiety, some forgiveness.