I truly disliked Caro’s yellow cowboy boots. Unlike regular Western footwear, which normally has pointy tips, they were square, heavy, and rough looking.
One day, when Caro was away on a business trip in the Soviet Union and Europe, taking advantage of his absence, I decided to dispose of his beloved boots. Grabbing them with the tips of my fingers spitefully, I rushed to the garbage room in our Manhattan apartment building. I carefully opened the garbage disposal door, grinning with satisfaction. I was happy. Finally, I was going to rid myself of those horrid boots. I held them, inside the dark passageway, and was about to dump them down the narrow disposal chute, when I suddenly decided against it. Instead, I placed them gingerly against the white washed wall of the garbage room. Slamming the heavy door behind me with a big bang, I hopped happily like a child down the hallway to our apartment.
“Goodbye, you ugly boots…!” I exclaimed to myself, as I opened our apartment door and rushed in.
Caro returned from his trip on a nice spring afternoon. Feeling somewhat guilty about my daring act, I offered my husband a drink. I wanted him to be in good spirits when I broke the delicate news to him. Meanwhile, as we sat in our 23rd-floor apartment enjoying our vodka tonics and the romantic Tom Jones music, the muffled hubbub of the vivacious Broadway penetrated in through closed doors windows. From the smile on his face, I could tell that Caro was tempted to step outside and mingle with the bustling crowd, when he uttered suddenly, “How about a nice stroll down Broadway?”
“Absolutely,” I said.
Caro zoomed to the bedroom-I guessed to put on his favorite boots. My heart thumped anxiously with anticipation. As I was contemplating what his reaction would be when he discovered my horrible sin, I heard him call out from the bedroom, “Honey, where are my boots?”
“Um…” I said, trying to prolong my answer.
“Did you hear me?” he yelled.
“Yes,” I replied, biting my lip. “I threw them away.”
“What…?” he hollered this time.
“Yes…they’re gone!” I stressed, now feeling brave… Yes, done with, finito, I thought.
“No way, you shouldn''t have.” He protested.
I bobbed my head, fixing him with mischievous eyes, as he leapt madly into the sitting room. For a moment, he froze like a statue, casting scornful looks toward me. Then shaking his head, he returned to the bedroom to fetch a pair of shoes.
“All right, let’s go now,” he barked without looking at my face, when he stepped back into the living room wearing a pair of black shoes.
We walked onto Broadway Avenue solemnly. Although I was well aware of Caro’s anger toward me, I did not care. “Hooray,” I told myself “My rival…those ugly yellow cowboy boots…his mistress…is finally out of my life.”
We slogged along the sidewalk, passing Pathmark, Crates and Barrel, the bagel store, Zaibar and Fairway and…
While strolling leisurely on Broadway, we had to push and squirm our way through dense crowds. That was exactly what Caro liked, the hubbub and bustle of Manhattan streets.
Presently, we arrived at the section where peddlers were selling their second hand goods, at the edge of the sidewalk on top of long off white canvasses. You could find anything from pocketbooks, tapes, books with discolored covers, clothing, and shoes, to some odd forks, knives, spoons and plates…
As Caro and I continued further on along the sidewalk, we came to a clothing and shoe stand. Suddenly, my dear husband pointed joyously to something and blurted out, “Oh my God…!”
I stared at the spot where he was pointing at and all of a sudden, to my horror, I beheld something that made me gasp for breath. I was flustered… I was devastated. Those horrid yellow boots…the most unwelcome sight; there they were nicely perched next to a row of tired shoes.
I slapped my forehead with the palm of my hand and murmured, “I bet one of the cleaners in the building salvaged the boots from the garbage room and sold them to this peddler.”
Caro, meanwhile, rushed like an eager child who has suddenly found a lost toy, and asked the peddler, “How much do you want for those boots?”
“Five dollars,” he said.
“I want them,” he crowed, with his eyes shining as brightly as the moon.
I bellowed, “Oh no, dear Lord…!” and walked away like a defeated soldier.
THE HORRID YELLOW BOOTS – BACK IN NEW YORK
I truly disliked Caro’s yellow cowboy boots. Unlike regular Western footwear, which normally has pointy tips, they were square, heavy, and rough looking.
One day, when Caro was away on a business trip in the Soviet Union and Europe, taking advantage of his absence, I decided to dispose of his beloved boots. Grabbing them with the tips of my fingers spitefully, I rushed to the garbage room in our Manhattan apartment building. I carefully opened the garbage disposal door, grinning with satisfaction. I was happy. Finally, I was going to rid myself of those horrid boots. I held them, inside the dark passageway, and was about to dump them down the narrow disposal chute, when I suddenly decided against it. Instead, I placed them gingerly against the white washed wall of the garbage room. Slamming the heavy door behind me with a big bang, I hopped happily like a child down the hallway to our apartment.
“Goodbye, you ugly boots…!” I exclaimed to myself, as I opened our apartment door and rushed in.
Caro returned from his trip on a nice spring afternoon. Feeling somewhat guilty about my daring act, I offered my husband a drink. I wanted him to be in good spirits when I broke the delicate news to him. Meanwhile, as we sat in our 23rd-floor apartment enjoying our vodka tonics and the romantic Tom Jones music, the muffled hubbub of the vivacious Broadway penetrated in through closed doors windows. From the smile on his face, I could tell that Caro was tempted to step outside and mingle with the bustling crowd, when he uttered suddenly, “How about a nice stroll down Broadway?”
“Absolutely,” I said.
Caro zoomed to the bedroom-I guessed to put on his favorite boots. My heart thumped anxiously with anticipation. As I was contemplating what his reaction would be when he discovered my horrible sin, I heard him call out from the bedroom, “Honey, where are my boots?”
“Um…” I said, trying to prolong my answer.
“Did you hear me?” he yelled.
“Yes,” I replied, biting my lip. “I threw them away.”
“What…?” he hollered this time.
“Yes…they’re gone!” I stressed, now feeling brave… Yes, done with, finito, I thought.
“No way, you shouldn''t have.” He protested.
I bobbed my head, fixing him with mischievous eyes, as he leapt madly into the sitting room. For a moment, he froze like a statue, casting scornful looks toward me. Then shaking his head, he returned to the bedroom to fetch a pair of shoes.
“All right, let’s go now,” he barked without looking at my face, when he stepped back into the living room wearing a pair of black shoes.
We walked onto Broadway Avenue solemnly. Although I was well aware of Caro’s anger toward me, I did not care. “Hooray,” I told myself “My rival…those ugly yellow cowboy boots…his mistress…is finally out of my life.”
We slogged along the sidewalk, passing Pathmark, Crates and Barrel, the bagel store, Zaibar and Fairway and…
While strolling leisurely on Broadway, we had to push and squirm our way through dense crowds. That was exactly what Caro liked, the hubbub and bustle of Manhattan streets.
Presently, we arrived at the section where peddlers were selling their second hand goods, at the edge of the sidewalk on top of long off white canvasses. You could find anything from pocketbooks, tapes, books with discolored covers, clothing, and shoes, to some odd forks, knives, spoons and plates…
As Caro and I continued further on along the sidewalk, we came to a clothing and shoe stand. Suddenly, my dear husband pointed joyously to something and blurted out, “Oh my God…!”
I stared at the spot where he was pointing at and all of a sudden, to my horror, I beheld something that made me gasp for breath. I was flustered… I was devastated. Those horrid yellow boots…the most unwelcome sight; there they were nicely perched next to a row of tired shoes.
I slapped my forehead with the palm of my hand and murmured, “I bet one of the cleaners in the building salvaged the boots from the garbage room and sold them to this peddler.”
Caro, meanwhile, rushed like an eager child who has suddenly found a lost toy, and asked the peddler, “How much do you want for those boots?”
“Five dollars,” he said.
“I want them,” he crowed, with his eyes shining as brightly as the moon.
I bellowed, “Oh no, dear Lord…!” and walked away like a defeated soldier.
THE HORRID YELLOW BOOTS – BACK IN NEW YORK
I truly disliked Caro’s yellow cowboy boots. Unlike regular Western footwear, which normally has pointy tips, they were square, heavy, and rough looking.
One day, when Caro was away on a business trip in the Soviet Union and Europe, taking advantage of his absence, I decided to dispose of his beloved boots. Grabbing them with the tips of my fingers spitefully, I rushed to the garbage room in our Manhattan apartment building. I carefully opened the garbage disposal door, grinning with satisfaction. I was happy. Finally, I was going to rid myself of those horrid boots. I held them, inside the dark passageway, and was about to dump them down the narrow disposal chute, when I suddenly decided against it. Instead, I placed them gingerly against the white washed wall of the garbage room. Slamming the heavy door behind me with a big bang, I hopped happily like a child down the hallway to our apartment.
“Goodbye, you ugly boots…!” I exclaimed to myself, as I opened our apartment door and rushed in.
Caro returned from his trip on a nice spring afternoon. Feeling somewhat guilty about my daring act, I offered my husband a drink. I wanted him to be in good spirits when I broke the delicate news to him. Meanwhile, as we sat in our 23rd-floor apartment enjoying our vodka tonics and the romantic Tom Jones music, the muffled hubbub of the vivacious Broadway penetrated in through closed doors windows. From the smile on his face, I could tell that Caro was tempted to step outside and mingle with the bustling crowd, when he uttered suddenly, “How about a nice stroll down Broadway?”
“Absolutely,” I said.
Caro zoomed to the bedroom-I guessed to put on his favorite boots. My heart thumped anxiously with anticipation. As I was contemplating what his reaction would be when he discovered my horrible sin, I heard him call out from the bedroom, “Honey, where are my boots?”
“Um…” I said, trying to prolong my answer.
“Did you hear me?” he yelled.
“Yes,” I replied, biting my lip. “I threw them away.”
“What…?” he hollered this time.
“Yes…they’re gone!” I stressed, now feeling brave… Yes, done with, finito, I thought.
“No way, you shouldn''t have.” He protested.
I bobbed my head, fixing him with mischievous eyes, as he leapt madly into the sitting room. For a moment, he froze like a statue, casting scornful looks toward me. Then shaking his head, he returned to the bedroom to fetch a pair of shoes.
“All right, let’s go now,” he barked without looking at my face, when he stepped back into the living room wearing a pair of black shoes.
We walked onto Broadway Avenue solemnly. Although I was well aware of Caro’s anger toward me, I did not care. “Hooray,” I told myself “My rival…those ugly yellow cowboy boots…his mistress…is finally out of my life.”
We slogged along the sidewalk, passing Pathmark, Crates and Barrel, the bagel store, Zaibar and Fairway and…
While strolling leisurely on Broadway, we had to push and squirm our way through dense crowds. That was exactly what Caro liked, the hubbub and bustle of Manhattan streets.
Presently, we arrived at the section where peddlers were selling their second hand goods, at the edge of the sidewalk on top of long off white canvasses. You could find anything from pocketbooks, tapes, books with discolored covers, clothing, and shoes, to some odd forks, knives, spoons and plates…
As Caro and I continued further on along the sidewalk, we came to a clothing and shoe stand. Suddenly, my dear husband pointed joyously to something and blurted out, “Oh my God…!”
I stared at the spot where he was pointing at and all of a sudden, to my horror, I beheld something that made me gasp for breath. I was flustered… I was devastated. Those horrid yellow boots…the most unwelcome sight; there they were nicely perched next to a row of tired shoes.
I slapped my forehead with the palm of my hand and murmured, “I bet one of the cleaners in the building salvaged the boots from the garbage room and sold them to this peddler.”
Caro, meanwhile, rushed like an eager child who has suddenly found a lost toy, and asked the peddler, “How much do you want for those boots?”
“Five dollars,” he said.
“I want them,” he crowed, with his eyes shining as brightly as the moon.
I bellowed, “Oh no, dear Lord…!” and walked away like a defeated soldier.
THE HORRID YELLOW BOOTS – BACK IN NEW YORK
I truly disliked Caro’s yellow cowboy boots. Unlike regular Western footwear, which normally has pointy tips, they were square, heavy, and rough looking.
One day, when Caro was away on a business trip in the Soviet Union and Europe, taking advantage of his absence, I decided to dispose of his beloved boots. Grabbing them with the tips of my fingers spitefully, I rushed to the garbage room in our Manhattan apartment building. I carefully opened the garbage disposal door, grinning with satisfaction. I was happy. Finally, I was going to rid myself of those horrid boots. I held them, inside the dark passageway, and was about to dump them down the narrow disposal chute, when I suddenly decided against it. Instead, I placed them gingerly against the white washed wall of the garbage room. Slamming the heavy door behind me with a big bang, I hopped happily like a child down the hallway to our apartment.
“Goodbye, you ugly boots…!” I exclaimed to myself, as I opened our apartment door and rushed in.
Caro returned from his trip on a nice spring afternoon. Feeling somewhat guilty about my daring act, I offered my husband a drink. I wanted him to be in good spirits when I broke the delicate news to him. Meanwhile, as we sat in our 23rd-floor apartment enjoying our vodka tonics and the romantic Tom Jones music, the muffled hubbub of the vivacious Broadway penetrated in through closed doors windows. From the smile on his face, I could tell that Caro was tempted to step outside and mingle with the bustling crowd, when he uttered suddenly, “How about a nice stroll down Broadway?”
“Absolutely,” I said.
Caro zoomed to the bedroom-I guessed to put on his favorite boots. My heart thumped anxiously with anticipation. As I was contemplating what his reaction would be when he discovered my horrible sin, I heard him call out from the bedroom, “Honey, where are my boots?”
“Um…” I said, trying to prolong my answer.
“Did you hear me?” he yelled.
“Yes,” I replied, biting my lip. “I threw them away.”
“What…?” he hollered this time.
“Yes…they’re gone!” I stressed, now feeling brave… Yes, done with, finito, I thought.
“No way, you shouldn''t have.” He protested.
I bobbed my head, fixing him with mischievous eyes, as he leapt madly into the sitting room. For a moment, he froze like a statue, casting scornful looks toward me. Then shaking his head, he returned to the bedroom to fetch a pair of shoes.
“All right, let’s go now,” he barked without looking at my face, when he stepped back into the living room wearing a pair of black shoes.
We walked onto Broadway Avenue solemnly. Although I was well aware of Caro’s anger toward me, I did not care. “Hooray,” I told myself “My rival…those ugly yellow cowboy boots…his mistress…is finally out of my life.”
We slogged along the sidewalk, passing Pathmark, Crates and Barrel, the bagel store, Zaibar and Fairway and…
While strolling leisurely on Broadway, we had to push and squirm our way through dense crowds. That was exactly what Caro liked, the hubbub and bustle of Manhattan streets.
Presently, we arrived at the section where peddlers were selling their second hand goods, at the edge of the sidewalk on top of long off white canvasses. You could find anything from pocketbooks, tapes, books with discolored covers, clothing, and shoes, to some odd forks, knives, spoons and plates…
As Caro and I continued further on along the sidewalk, we came to a clothing and shoe stand. Suddenly, my dear husband pointed joyously to something and blurted out, “Oh my God…!”
I stared at the spot where he was pointing at and all of a sudden, to my horror, I beheld something that made me gasp for breath. I was flustered… I was devastated. Those horrid yellow boots…the most unwelcome sight; there they were nicely perched next to a row of tired shoes.
I slapped my forehead with the palm of my hand and murmured, “I bet one of the cleaners in the building salvaged the boots from the garbage room and sold them to this peddler.”
Caro, meanwhile, rushed like an eager child who has suddenly found a lost toy, and asked the peddler, “How much do you want for those boots?”
“Five dollars,” he said.
“I want them,” he crowed, with his eyes shining as brightly as the moon.
I bellowed, “Oh no, dear Lord…!” and walked away like a defeated soldier.
interesting