One sunny day in June, on impulse, I bought two pairs of sandals. They weren’t perfect, but black is always useful and silver is in, so I figured, What the heck. Later that week I went to the doctor for a backache; she said I shouldn’t be wearing flat shoes, so I decided to return them. Clearly this was hubris. Folly. I unleashed the floodgates, and now the deluge was upon me. I passed by the store on my way home the next day. I didn’t know the word for “refund.” I didn’t want an exchange. The salesman asked me what was wrong with the shoes. “Nothing is wrong with them,” I said. “I just don’t want them anymore.” Free markets, free will, goddamn it. “We don’t just take things back, comme ça,” he said, snapping his fingers in the air. His disdain was so complete, his tone so withering, that I stepped back as if I’d been struck. I opened my mouth to explain, but he stared me down like a six-headed Hydra, like I had worn the shoes to a muddy rave and was now trying to put one over on him, like I was a criminal: a wasteful, horrid, annoying creature, a shoe hound, a shrill and irresponsible taker of his time.
