Note on a Fridge

Photograph by Carly Lewis

You moved my shoes.

Again, Laura.

You moved my shoes again and I couldn’t find them.

I looked for hours that felt like days.

They weren’t in the closet by the door. The front door.

I didn’t see them on the stairwell, up or down (I checked both).

Not on the bedroom floor. Not under the desk in the den.

(These are floors I used to know. We used to know, together.) My shoes weren’t there.

I tried the kitchen, opened cupboards I didn’t know existed.

(You always complain that I don’t spend enough time in there. Well, Laura, now I have.)

I even checked the bathrooms. Our bathrooms. (And don’t worry, the seat was down in all of them.)

I searched the whole goddamn house, Laura. Nothing. They were my only pair of shoes,

and I liked them.

(You’ve bought me shoes before, I know. Plenty. But none I want to wear.)

It wasn’t until I opened the door to see if it was warm enough for sandals that I found them.


You moved them onto the front porch, out in what I discovered to be the cold.

And it was in that moment that I realized, you’ve been moving my shoes since the day we met.

You’ve moved my shoes so many times, I don’t even recognize them.

They’re never okay where they are, and you just can’t leave them alone.

Well, this is the last time, Laura.

I’ve made a note of it in handwriting you can’t read.

You moved my shoes, and I don’t love you anymore.