They are the sexiest pair of shoes I have ever owned, and when I say sexy, I mean it in the classiest way possible. The softest burgundy suede, criss-crossing over the tops of my feet, my black polished toes peeping out the front, which reveals a touch of the leopard print on the inside of the shoe. The heels make me four inches taller, lengthen my legs, and give me the stride of a starlet. Encouraging short skirts and form-fitting dresses, these pumps are the bold stroke on the canvas that is my fashion.

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It is the shoe you spy first upon entering the small, ambient-lit martini bar, her small foot shod in the burgundy confection, peeking around the corner of the soft leather couch. The shoe is classic and cunning, trapping you even before you know you are so. It leads you up from a dainty foot to a well-turned ankle, which flexes and points in rhythm with the soft jazz that plays. Your gaze is drawn up an elegant pillar of a leg, over tender, toned calf, grazing over her knee like a touch in and of itself. Her thigh disappears under the hem of her dress, which hugs shapely hips and waist, creating a lovely S-curve silhouette as she leans against the arm of the couch. Her eyes are downcast into her glass, the gold and red of her amaretto sour and pomegranate simultaneously mingling and sitting suspended in her hand. Her expression is serene, drawing you to wonder just what is on her mind. And it all started with a shoe.