This isnt how it works in the movies, she tells herself over and over. The Femme Fatal never breaks a heel.
She regards the black pump in her right hand with a mixture of contempt and irritation willing it to beg forgivness.
It serves her right though she hates to admit it to herself. She bought the shoes at a small Payless near the airport when she realized that she had forgoten to pack her own.
A stich in time saves your stockings and keeps you from looking like a beaten prostitute. This thought is accompanied by a rueful grin, thinking back to all the terrible cornball addages her mother had lavished upon her in her youth, but that was before the War, and before her mothers house had been bombed.
Now was diffenet, the warm summer and smell of baking bread replaced by a damp allyway and the smell of rotting garbage.
At the end of the allyway she turned right, and stoped under a tattered green domed awning. Set flush in the crumbling black brick wall was a beaten rust stained bare metal door, no handle on her side. She rapped sharply on it twice.
"Whoser?" from inside.
"Claudia, open up." behind the door she can hear the sharp scrape of metal against stone as the hasp is pulled away. The door, displeased with being disturbed, protests. Loudly.
"You really should oil that thing Vince."
"And you should start lettin me take yah on dates, neither's happenin anytime soon."
more later on this if ya'll want.