Silver Flats(Margaret Duarte) She came to our front door asking for shoes.

"Do you have a pair of flats I can borrow?" she said. "They won't let me into the jail in high heels."

My husband, Paul, ran his fingers through his thin graying hair and smiled, as though trying to decide if this was a joke or for real. Either way, it seemed to brighten his day. "My wife has tons of shoes," he said, without taking his eyes off the dewy-faced woman. "Don't you, Vicki?"

I didn't answer, just stared, mentally scanning my closet for a pair of shoes I'd be willing to part with. She was wearing a white charmeuse blouse, with black and silver stripes, black slacks, and sling-back shoes. Something didn't compute. Chic, young woman? Jail? And what brought her to our house in particular? The Correctional Center was two miles away, with at least seven houses between. Was it the whimsical applique flag hanging from the pole out front--a turkey holding a banner: Be Thankful--or maybe the pink and white begonias and red Hibiscus blooming their little hearts out along the front walk?

"Visiting hours are over at one," she said, appealing to Paul with her doe eyes, even though they were my shoes she was after. "So it's too late to go back to the store. And I need to visit someone really badly."

She was petite and her feet looked small.

"I wear a size nine," I said, figuring that would be the end of it. No self-respecting woman would be caught dead in a pair of shoes at least two sizes too large.

She flung a strand of silky black hair over her shoulder. "That's okay. I have to pass three checkpoints at the jail. They've already made me take off my bra because of the under wires and my belt because it was metal, and...well, you know..."

"You'd think they'd lend you a pair of socks or something," Paul said.

If they made me take off my bra, I'd be in a heap of trouble, I thought, noticing the way her Juicy Couture bag hung over her breasts like a sling.

There were no other passengers in her car, which meant we weren't likely to be robbed, so I left Paul in charge while I rushed to the bedroom for the silver ballet flats I'd purchased for the holidays. They were cute as hell, but too tight and scratchy for my clodhopper feet, so I'd retired them to the back of the closet unused.

"Hope these will do," I said on my return, holding them up for her inspection. Their metallic surface shimmered in the late morning sun, and I realized with a note of pride that they complimented her outfit quite well. "And you don't have to return them," I added, suddenly glad they were new, their telltale soles still smooth and unscathed.

She awarded Paul a quick smile and then hurried back to her car.

"Glad to help," I said to her back. Child woman. Sleek. Gutsy.

"Don't forget to keep them in your trunk for next time," Paul called out before she slammed the car door.

Next time?

We watched her back out of the driveway.

"Wonder who she's visiting," Paul said. "Probably some loser on drugs."

A first time offender was my guess, an older brother maybe, or a friend who'd gone astray.

"The pretty ones always go for the losers," he said.

I glanced at the man I'd been married to for thirty-five years to see if he was kidding, but the frown on his face meant he was serious.

Hey, I wanted to say. I was pretty once, and I didn't go for a loser. But I didn't want Paul to look at me the way he was now looking at the empty driveway.

"Bet it's some Hispanic gang member incarcerated for drugs and assault." The way Paul cranked out the words you'd think he'd been personally slighted.

"She was Asian," I said.

"Her plates said New Mexico."

I pictured her prancing in and out of the jail in her fanciful silver flats, past all three checkpoints, head held high, and then wearing the shoes again, but for the holidays this time, or a nice evening out. "Ready for lunch?"

Paul didn't answer, just shut and locked the door.

I headed for the kitchen to set up the counter where we eat most of our meals now that the kids are grown.

Paul sat on his stool, picked up the remote, and turned on the big screen TV embedded in the kitchen wall. CNN. Wolf Blitzer. National news.

And then all thought of the young girl receded into the back of my mind--too tight, too scratchy--much like my silver flats.

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