One night a long time ago, I stepped into a metal ventilation cover coming out of work, and scuffed up my favorite pair of Manolos. I couldn't even bear to examine the damage. I put them away in a dust bag in the back of my closet. When I told my friends about the unfortunate accident, they would tell me to take them to a cobbler. I knew though that the shoes were ruined for good, and no cobbler in HK would be able to make them new again. "Just give it a try." They would say.

 

This morning right before I left my apt for work, I grabbed the shoes and put them in my purse. Pedder st. was filled with trinket vendors and cobblers as usual. I went up to an old man working on a another pair of women's heels. I carefully took the shoes out of the bag and showed him the ugly scuff. Under the sunlight, it looked even more broken than I'd remembered. "Can these be fixed?" I asked the question. The old man took one peek at them. "No hope." He said as he shook his head and pursed his lips. It was the answer I'd expected, but a tinge of disappointment still managed to slip through. I thanked him and walked away, towards the trash bin on the street corner. The old man went back to working on that other shoe, a shoe that had hope.

 

But maybe, just maybe there's an old man back in New York City who has fixed more shoes than this old man, who has more advanced tools, who knows exactly how to mend a scuffed up heel.

 

I passed by the trash bin and kept walking.

I stepped outside of my apartment building this morning and was immediately smothered with 70-degree sunshine. I can't remember exactly when getting a tan on Christmas, wearing shorts in January, and not owning a coat stopped feeling strange.

 

It has been summer since last June.  

 

Cotton dresses and watermelon, peach scented shampoo, and the tiny, almost unnoticeable, pink mosquito bite on my ankle.