“Do you really dare wear those Balenciaga monstrosities in my presence?” “I know, I know,” she groans. I shake my head at her wildly. “They look like—” “—Geriatric shoes,” she jumps in. “I know.” “Have you no pride, Taura? No sense of self-worth?” “Alright—” She rolls her eyes. “I’m wearing a shoe you don’t like, I didn’t sell my baby…” “I might have preferred it if you did.”
