And then she showed me her shoe.

She had looked like someone with vague possibility, a girl with hidden talents and concealed kinks.

I don't know where I get these ideas from. I tend to believe I have x-ray vision of the soul, that I can recognize a girl who dresses slutty because she thinks she's supposed to, or in this case the obviously demure little mousy type who just wants to fuck her brains out all day long.

So I watched her and I swore that she was watching me back, wanting me to make a move, to pat the empty bus seat next to me and gesture her over all dominant and manly like.

But at some level I doubt my super powers, both my ability to dominate and to see the slut behind the drab almost invisible-making baggy jeans and sweater outfit, and I did not pat the seat, or gesture her over, and she in turn stopped looking at me and looked instead through her shopping bag, which was in itself more interesting than anything she'd done so far.

The most interesting thing she'd done that is, until she pulled it out, the unbelievably ferociously tacky neon green with bright orange straps and six inch stiletto bend-me-over-the-nearest- table-and-punish-me-hard-for-wearing-something-this-hideous heel shoe, pulled it out and showed it to me, my hand, already, completely out of my control, patting the seat next to me and gesturing her over, my faith in my super powers fully restored.