Flip Flop Girl

I never was a fan of the flip flops, until tonight. After my first pedicure of the spring season, my toes sparkling blood red, I decided to wear flip flops for the rest of the evening rather than risk a smeared toenail.

I walked through the park, warm breezes blowing, my skirt billowing in the wind. Flip, flop. Flip, flop, smacked the pink plastic against the soles of my feet.

In the grocery store, up and down the aisles, flip, flop. Flip, flop. Normally agitated by the throngs of after work shoppers, I didn’t seem to mind. My entire body had gone into beach mode. Flip, flop. Flip, flop.

I walked home, up through Russian Hill. A group of older men gathered outside a house, smoking cigars. I crossed the street to avoid the smoke. I heard one of them muse, “That sound. That sound. It’s so mesmerizing – where is it coming from?” I felt heads turn as my hips sashayed. Flip, flop. Flip, flop.

I walked over Nob Hill, through the quiet streets perfumed with wisteria. Flip, flop. Flip, flop. “Hey,” I heard a voice call from up above. “Hey, beauty! Hey…” I continued. Flip, flop. Flip, flop. “Hey, flower girl.” I looked down. I was indeed carrying a bouquet of calla lilies, but for some reason didn’t think the yeller was beckoning to me. Flip, flop. Flip, flop. “Hey, flip flop girl! Bella!” I turned around and smiled at the man waving from his third story window, before continuing down the hill. Flip, flop. Flip, flop.

Not a care in the world, just me and my pink flip flops.

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