Shoewalker

...And Max? Piah wondered, brushing her flawless teeth, her reflecting birthmark forever heralding her god given destiny. Who was this solitary guy that looked an epitome of voguish spontaneity? Eyes blue one minute and green the next. Hair modelled into a halo of conflicting ruby flames. A faded sack of olive dungarees combined with a baize shirt of gentle coloured check, neither disguising the tautness of his frame, nor the relaxed purpose of his movements, nor the fragility of his being. Only the shoes didn't fit the look, but then he said he was a shoewalker. And having seen him hounded so viciously although maybe, Piah wondered, deservedly from the pub is what made the softer Piah want to follow...