She stepped out into the moist late summer afternoon and breathed deep. It was wistfully autumn-it was almost as though the razing summer’s heat was not yet quite willing to relinquish its hold on the squares of time-claiming his rightful ownership to the very last second the calendar had allotted him. The aura whispered autumn and the heat interrupted that it was still summer and so they went on back and forth like two quarreling children this first day of September.
She breathed again, hoping to catch some scent of curling wood smoke against the crisp air breathing from the north or the tangy, alive scent of falling leaves drifting to the ground with some kind of lazy urgency-anything that would call her back to her childhood. But the air remained tepid and the leaves held stubbornly to their hosts, and she quickened her pace.
It was not as though she did not like being grown up-being called “Miss” was becoming increasingly less strange; and there was some sort of respect in being old-instantly one became taller and wiser, with more advantages, more privileges-more responsibility. It was what she had longed for all her life-no there definitely wasn’t anything wrong in growing older.
Nevertheless, today she longed to escape; the fall always brought such nostalgia and she was sure that it would pass. Besides, there was no time to escape today anyway: her neat navy blue suit clung to her damp skin as she clipped down the sidewalk as quickly and as gracefully as possible in her slender high heels-she had always begged to wear her momma’s tall heels when she was little and when she received her own first pair, she wore them proudly every Sunday for three months after opening the little box, still smelling faintly of her mother’s perfume and new shoe leather from the big store in the city. She had grown weary of them as they acquired a few scratches and scuffs, and when they slid into the darkest corner under her bed, she scarcely noticed.
She had not thought it necessary to don another pair of heels until Roy Smith had asked her to Homecoming when she was sixteen. She wore a pair of dainty pink slippers-the folds of her dress and the blush of her cheeks accenting the delicate features of the young girl. She leaned proudly against his felt letter jacket, which smelled faintly of the outdoors and too strongly of aftershave. However, as so many young romances, it ended with many unfulfilled promises, twice as many tears, and new dreams by the next school term.
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