The Shoes by Daria Molchanova

The sonorous knock of heels on the polished floor
made him startle, look at the scene above the edge of the glass with a slight bit of envy. Mr. D, as he was called once upon a time, used to catch people's eyes by the rhythmic motives of swing, and now he's stifle his sorrow in cheap brandy. With boredom in the eyes, the usual pain in the leg and a weak half smile.
"Have you seen?" the bar owner spoke affably to him. "Beginner. But people are already coming to look at him, a lucrative guy."
"Shoes" D said monotonously, not even looking on his friend. "The same as mine."
"Shoes?"
The  bartender lowered his eyes to the dancer's feet, who seemed to be almost exhausted, and smiled.
"You had more battered ones. Pour more?"
"You had more battered ones. Pour more?"
D waved, but the man only laughed and silently set a glass in front of him. D looked at the dark brandy and grimaced, pushing the glass away.
"The hat flew off his head."
The old shoes that still stood on the second top shelf of his closet were probably his best friends. Well-worn, but even now in good condition, they still smelled of expensive varnish and genuine leather. D still remembers when he first picked them up. A gift from the first teacher and friend.
He doesn't even remember his face. He remembers only the delight of the first good pair of shoes and the first dance in them - as if wings had grown on his ankles.
D sadly looked down at his laced shoes and with boredom, even without regret, ran his palm over his sore knee.
He should finish his brandy.