High Heels, Low Magic

There are many ways to learn a lesson.

Some involve humility.
Others… involve cursed shoes.

These shoes are trying to kill me.
That’s not a figure of speech — it’s an empirical observation, tested with every unstable step I take across this uneven sidewalk.

Mental note for the future: never, under any circumstances, challenge your secretary by saying her job is “just sitting around doing nothing.” Especially when said secretary happens to be an apprentice witch with a questionable sense of humor and unrestricted access to your coffee.

Now here I am.
Balancing on this elegant instrument of torture, doing everything in my power to look functional, professional, and remotely dignified while making a heroic effort to reach the office alive and conscious.

Every corner is a test of character.
Every step, a negotiation with supernatural forces.

The worst part?
The shoes are flawless. Almost comfortable… as long as you’re standing still. In motion, they seem to have developed a personality of their own — and absolutely no intention of cooperating.

I’m fairly certain I heard a giggle the third time I nearly fell.

If I make it to reception, I swear I will never again underestimate administrative work, domestic magic, or women who can cast spells before nine in the morning.

And if I don’t…

Well.
Let the record show I did apologize.
Just not out loud.