I was wearing sandals the afternoon we ran into your wife downtown. No pantyhose because it was August and I was 22, the weight of the world not yet upon me. I remember how you dropped my hand in time, suggested the cafeteria where the three of us ate lunch. I do not remember how you introduced us, only that she wore pumps, brown leather, stiff. I had a chef salad that afternoon. And when I saw the two of you step out of line with the daily special on your trays, meatloaf, mashed potatoes, gravy, even in that heat, I knew that I had been kidding myself. You would never leave her. I looked at your wife’s feet under the table. What I saw was that one day I would be 35, too. A woman who would wear shoes that fit just fine in the store. They wouldn’t bother her until she wore them a few times. But by then, she really couldn’t bring them back. It would be too late.