That isn't funny, at all

Cooking Shoes

She’d typed in her email to me, “I’m looking at cooking shoes while I’m working.”

Now, I’ll admit I’m not terribly sophisticated. I’ll admit there are many things which I don’t know. I’ll admit that I don’t know what cooking shoes are. For men, they’d be sneakers, worn in the likely event of a fire. I never cook without my running shoes on. I was a boy scout, and that was what we did in the event of rogue fires, run.

My mind wandered, dancing upon daydreams of cooking shoes. I thought of red. I thought of patent leather heels, with an apron, the kind with a bow in the back, and nothing else worn. Though, I thought of this on her, not on me. My legs are still unshaven.

A short while later, another email arrived. I knew because my phone buzzed in my front pocket, and the resulting pleasant sensation always reminds me of her, “Buzzz!”

This one informed, quite casually, “I’m shabby-shirking the table.”

Though uncertain of what the term meant, I’d wondered how she could even type while shabby-shirking a table. I’m pretty sure that if I were in such a dire state that I’d shabby-shirk a table, I’d be unable to type. Besides, I’m not ambidextrous. Something would have to relent.

I was enjoying the thought of red patent leather heels waving ’round in the air, bouncing in my peripheral vision, bow-back aprons, and shabby-shirking her on the table, though done less shabbily, when joy visited the front of my trousers again, “Buzzz!”

This time, it read, “I live you.”

Yes, indeed. I live her too, typos and all.