Confused Shoes

I do believe I am my roommate’s worst nightmare.

She winds cords and uses bread ties to secure them.

I don’t.

She organizes the refrigerator and cabinets, always placing the partially consumed articles on top or in front to ensure they are consumed first, with the newer items in the rear.

I eat out of the carton.

She parks her vehicle always facing out of the drive, with the drivers’ side closest to the front door.

I park half in and half out of the yard.

She, being Native, believes in the importance of placing inanimate objects appropriately. Shoes, for example, are to be next to one another, facing forward, left and right in the correct location.

Why, I asked?

Because they will be confused.

I don’t care if my shoes are confused, I tell her. Have you seen my room?

Her eyes flicker nervously toward the sliver of floor visible through the open door. It scares me, she admits.

Shoes litter the floor, harem-skarem, randomly paired. What happens if you have confused shoes, I ask.

They will confuse your feet. And you won’t know which way you should go.

Hmmm.

Maybe she’s on to something.