The Other Shoe

He was a big man, tall enough, and his shoulders could stand two bushels of grain. By day he worked the docks of a mighty river. He lived alone in a tin-roofed shack near the pier, avoided rum, spoke only when he had to, but that was before the last war. Now the river folk were gone and the storehouses along the river were dark and empty.

He sat on the bank, chewing a sassafras root. Once a frothy blue highway for barges and fishing boats, it was sluggish and rust colored. In fact, a perfect match for the shoe, the only thing left to remind him of her. He’d found it by the campfire, brought it to the spot where the river turned southward to the Gulf. On a whim, he’d stuck a few pathetic purple flowers in it. A token of their love? Not exactly.

Her name was Violet and she was the last woman on earth. In fact, as far as they knew, they were the last two people. All the food was gone. No surviving animals, no fish or birds. Even the vegetation was dying or poisonous. They were starving. He was a big man, a strong man, and he was very hungry.

Idly, he wondered what happened to her other shoe.

∼ Marge Simon