You are a two-inch speck of panic against the vast, cold expanse of the Starbucks tile floor. The air above is thick with the fog of warm steam and the overwhelming sweetness of caramel syrup, but down here, the dominant smell is cool, sterile floor cleaner cut with the faint, metallic scent of spilled espresso that dried an hour ago.
The only world that matters is the two-foot radius around you, currently dominated by the massive, blindingly white presence of Chloe Bennet’s footwear.
The left shoe, a Gucci Princetown Loafer Mule, looms like a sculpted mountain range of leather. The pristine white surface is curved and immense, the texture up close surprisingly grainy, a microscopic landscape of pores and stitch lines. The sole, thick black rubber stretching off into the horizon, is already scuffed, a testament to its travels.
You are huddled next to a grout trench—a deep, gray canyon between the beige ceramic tiles—listening to the boom-thump of her heartbeat, which seems to echo through the solid floor. You know she’s annoyed. You can hear the low, impatient vibration of her repeated sighing, a deep, resonant sound that makes the air tremble slightly.
"Seriously, just an iced Americano," the deep rumble of her voice echoes, muffled and indistinct. The line is stalled, and her patience is dissolving.
First Ascent: The Golden Gong
You have to reach the golden horsebit. It's the loudest, most resonant object within your reach.
You spring from the safety of the grout trench and sprint toward the shoe. The floor, once smooth, is actually treacherous; tiny specks of sugar and fine dust are like unexpected boulders. You scramble to the base of the left loafer and begin your ascent up the sheer, white toe box.
The leather is cold and strangely sticky. Your fingers and toes find purchase in the almost invisible texture of the grain. The climb is arduous, exhausting; the vast curve of the shoe seems to offer no end. A muscle in your leg is already burning before you reach the front seam where the two pieces of leather meet. You use the ridge of thick stitching like a rope ladder, pulling yourself up to the horizontal plain of the vamp.
Finally, you reach the buckle. It is a monumental brass structure, the double-ringed horsebit: polished, cold, and gleaming under the harsh ceiling light.
You pull out the small, brass espresso tamper—your makeshift tool—and strike the gold metal.
DONG!
The sound is immense. To your tiny ears, it’s the loudest noise you’ve ever heard, a resonant, echoing gong that vibrates through your bones. You strike it again, desperately: DONG! DONG!
The reaction is not what you hoped for. Instead of looking down, the massive figure above you shifts her phone from her right hand to her left. You feel a sudden, jarring lurch.
The whole shoe lifts two inches off the ground.
The world tilts violently. You lose your footing on the slick gold surface and slide, catching yourself by a hair on the edge of the buckle. You are hanging over the dizzying, polished drop to the floor.
As you hang, the shoe swings casually back and forth in mid-air, a pendulous, swaying threat. The air rushing past the sole is a cool wind. You can hear the muffled, high-pitched screech of music from her earbuds, entirely blocking out your frantic signal.
She drops the shoe.
It doesn't crash; it just lands with a dull, heavy THWUMP, the noise muffled by the plush padding of the sole. The impact sends a violent tremor through the buckle, flinging you forward onto the soft leather of the shoe tongue. You lie there, shaken, dizzy, and utterly defeated. She is still waiting, tapping the horsebit with her phone once before realizing what she’s done and pulling it back.
You are completely unnoticeable.
Retreat and the Looming Threat
The line moves a centimeter.
You scramble off the shoe and slide down the leather wall, collapsing onto the tile. You look up. The shoe is too noisy, too far from the rest of her body to register over the café din. You have to try the heel. The exposed skin.
But the danger here is immediate. She is restless. She shifts her weight constantly, an anxious dance of monumental leather.
You begin to creep toward the back of the shoe, navigating the treacherous no-man's-land between the pair of loafers.
Suddenly, a vast, white shadow falls over you.
Her right loafer moves. It lifts six inches off the floor. You freeze, pressed flat against the tile, the polished black rubber of the sole hanging directly over your head. You can smell the faint, warm rubber and the clean scent of the fabric softener from her jeans.
The shoe descends slowly, deliberately, as she shifts her balance. The immense sole grazes the tile with a sound like sandpaper: S-C-R-R-A-A-P-E. It settles a full four inches closer to you than before.
You’re trapped now. Your escape route to the left is blocked by the newly positioned right shoe. You are pinned in the small, diminishing space between the two white mountains.
And then the left loafer moves. It lifts off, and you watch, terrified, as the enormous, light-blue denim wall of her jean-clad calf moves into position.
She is now perfectly centered over you, her feet forming a white leather prison. The air is warm and still.
You hear her deep, frustrated exhale directly above you, a pressure wave of warm, humid air that makes you feel suddenly lightheaded. "Oh, my God. Just make the drink," she mutters.
Second Ascent: The Heel of Achilles
The annoyance in her voice gives you a momentary opening. She is distracted, fixated on the barista.
You turn and look toward the back of the left loafer mule. It’s an optical illusion of space. The back of the shoe is open, and between the white leather and the cuff of her jeans is a narrow, dark crevice.
The crevice is where her heel rests. It is the only exposed piece of skin.
You rush to the back lip of the shoe. The smooth, polished leather of the sole is waiting. You vault onto the small, dark leather pad where the back of her heel usually sits. It is warm and slightly indented from the pressure of her foot.
You begin to climb the exposed skin of her heel. The texture is breathtaking—soft, warm, and yielding. You find purchase on the tiny, almost invisible ridges of her skin, pulling yourself upward towards her Achilles tendon. It’s a warm, living cliff face. The scent of her clean, warm skin is overwhelming here.
You manage to climb three inches up her heel before the inevitable happens.
The line moves forward two steps.
Chloe takes a stride. The Princetown mule slides forward, and the heel that you are currently climbing pushes down onto the leather sole.
The crushing force is instantaneous. There is no air displacement this time, just immense, direct pressure. You are trapped between the smooth, descending mountain of her heel and the polished leather sole of the shoe.
You scream, but the sound is instantly silenced. The darkness is total. The pressure is immense, not enough to crush your body completely, but enough to flatten you, to force every ounce of air from your lungs. You feel the absolute, heavy weight of her entire body resting momentarily on her foot. The warmth of her skin is all around you, suffocating.
This is it. You hear a loud CRUNCH—but it’s only the thin, dry edge of a sugar packet you were resting near.
The pressure lasts for one agonizing second. Then, her weight shifts, and the pressure instantly releases. She’s moved on.
You fall gasping onto the leather sole, bruised and terrified, your sight readjusting to the dim light. Your heart is a drum against your ribs. You look up at the receding pillar of her exposed heel, a soft, beautiful, and utterly oblivious menace. She is standing now, two feet further up the line, totally focused on the counter.
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