Eleven

The cute redhead of no more than 24 years of age walked up to the man in the vest and whispered something delicately into his ear. The grace in which she moved matched the sexy, mysterious professionalism in which she so provocatively yet so conservatively dressed. The clerk shyed away and to the adjacent voyeurs watching so intently it was obvious she was out of his league, and he knew he wasn't a slugger. The voyeurs knew as well, and in that instant of time, each knew the other knew just as well. What he knew that no one else knew, was what this ball of fire was passionately whispering in his ear. After the first-tense minute, he the clerk seemed to ease up as her quiet musings poured out...and became less robotic in his body language. She sat down and he took off her shoes and measured them with one of those metal things. He thought her feet were akin to cotton candy symphony spun by Nordic elves. He looked up at her, and she asked with a half-smile,
"What size do you wear?" as if mischievously trying to gather dandelions.
"Eleven...why?"
She smiled slyly as she brought her hand to her lip, "I don't know...just curious."
"Oh," he added, "It hangs to the left."