The expert in anything was once a beginner


§ False steps

Drops of ripe currant stained my white boots, yesterday in the garden.
It's a July afternoon. The speaker in the classroom is telling us how to write a good story, but I look in front of me – at feet and body parts.
I've been studying them for months, in weekly meetings with suspended words, chats on books and songs, jokes about the news, anger, memories, and other wonders.
I always write down everything on my notebook. Sometimes I also draw: a profile or the traits of a mouth. A fixed expression and a surprised one.
But today I look at the shoes.
Apart from the drops of ripe currant, my boots are white. Summer Indian boots with a round of studs. Once polished, they're beautiful again. The other shoes in the circle of chairs before me on large, long feet are sandals and sneakers.
I stare at the thighs in front of me: long muscles wrapped in a pigeon-coloured denim; at the end of big, hairy, honey-blond, almost thick ankles, there are matching shoes. Suede loafers, expensive and light on the feet. Clean. Almost new: the crêpe rubber is little worn, the upper looks uncut and moss-coloured stitching perfectly mark the edge.
Fashionable dainty loafers of beige light leather, untreated, for great comfort and healthy feet.
They're not as dirty as my boots. They have no stains of grass, or fruit, or mud.
Indeed, they're always very clean; but I seem to notice only on a summer day of rain. They will never get dirty, you see.
They can not get filthy, torn or worn. No gravel or sun, no sand or grass. No dirt or debris from the newly paved roads of summer construction sites at every crossroad. They don't walk or stop at the lights.
No puddles to avoid for these smooth shoes of untreated leather.
Sure, walk they do: many steps are taken in the delicate shades of moss with the untouched upper and the clean seams: dry and dusty hallways is what they cross.
Every day, they pass gates, run through corridors, and return, the suede loafers, so dainty, so soft and so neat; they cross a room and reach a window, they slow down at a sink, stop in front of a bed.
Get in the shower in the morning, to the library now and again.
Stand in the chapel and attend Mass on Sunday; once a week, they go see Mum.
And when I leave, on Fridays, the neat, soft and so dainty lightweight loafers walk back into a cell.
For these lightweight loafers that are so soft and dainty and neat, they dress the feet of a killer, you see.

From: 2 or 3 Things I know about Killers 
§ The Shoes