There they were; there on the clearance rack, a pair of Converse sneakers. Ultra low top and canvas in a dark grapey shade of purple. I picked them up, imagining (as I often do with possible purchases) what I could wear them with and when. With sassy printed shorts on jaunts around the city? Of course. Slipping them on with a pair of red skinny jeans to hang out at the Bottletree? Naturally. Heck, I would even dare to match the purple wonders with a black skirt and white dress shirt at work, a playful and marginally suitable exchange for my usual colorful flats. With my classic sneaks, the sky was the limit.
But alas. I reviewed the other two shoeboxes tucked under my arm. One was a pair of black sandals I had chosen for a weekend wedding, and the other a comfy and pretty brown leather flat I could wear anywhere. My budget would not stretch to a third, less necessary pair. So, with a little sigh and final longing gaze, I replaced the sneakers on the shelf and made my more sensible purchases.
But the purple Converses haunted me like a fashionable ghost. Deciding on my daily pair of shoes that week, I would think back on them, imagining they would look perfect with whatever I was wearing, their absence felt in my closet. Lunch time at work found me pondering a trip up to the store, skipping lunch out for a few days to justify my purchase.
Finally, finally I couldn't take it anymore. The next week I used visiting a friend as an excuse to pop into the nearby store, just to see if the shoes were as wonderful as I remembered. I headed back to the clearance rack, my purchase guaranteed.
I scoured the size sevens. Back and forth I paced. Maybe I just wasn't seeing them, maybe someone put them back in the wrong place.
With growing despair, I knew the worst had happened. Someone had snatched up my heart's desire, and there was no one to blame but me.
My head hung, I ventured out of the store, none the wiser. Just another sad case of non-buyer's remorse.