by Hel Virago
Disclaimer: I own only Cousin John. All other characters are property of their creators or, you know, whoever legally owns them. Which is not me.
Author's Notes: ds_flashfiction, now with rollover minutes. Written for the ds_flashfiction footwear challenge back in September 2003.
Story Notes: There is no gay sex in here at ALL! I'm as appalled as the rest of you. Created by writing until Stella was done talking to me, then ruthlessly cutting 75% of it, so if it feels disjointed that would explain it.
I would have exiled Ray's motorcycle boots from our closet for fear they'd shed their constant dirt on my work shoes, except they never made it to the closet; generally, he'd just toe them off and kick them into a corner. In the years we lived together, I tripped over those boots probably twenty times. I spilled my coffee, got runs in my hose, stubbed my toes -- I swear those things lurked, just waiting for me to show up. I was sure they hated me.
Ray is sitting on my side of the church, way in the back to avoid having to interact with my parents in any way, and fidgeting. He's wearing a suit, which means he's probably wearing his dancing shoes, which are probably almost identical to the ones he bought at fifteen when he decided to join my ballroom dance class.
I haven't thought about this in years, but suddenly I remember a Friday night in the early 80s, and a family party I never should have dragged Ray to. After an evening of splinter-sharp digs at Ray's clothes and accent and job, I lost my temper and slapped my cousin John as hard as I could. By the time we reached our hotel room, I was mortified, certain I had embarrassed Ray. I was preparing an apology for his no doubt wounded pride, but instead I found myself pushed against the nearest wall and devoured, finally kicking off my shoes and standing on Ray's boots to get the height to reach him. He brought me off like that, his hand down inside my underwear and my toes squeaking on his beat-up boots as I shifted and trembled and cried into his mouth and tried to retain some balance while he drove me up and over.
Ray Vecchio loves that I don't fluster easily, that I keep my cool, that I understand the value of a well-placed accessory. He's amazed and grateful that I can simultaneously dress well and laugh at his jokes, and I'm amazed and grateful that he manages to be passionately devoted to me and still wholly a separate person.
And I hope, with a sudden force that squeezes my heart inside my chest, that Ray Kowalski will find someone with unsophisticated taste in footwear who will stand up for him from the very beginning.
End A Good Fit by Hel Virago: email@example.com
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