He could remember her by her shoes. Nice shoes, brown shoes, soft leather curving into small gold buckles clasping simple little straps shoes. Ballet flats, the thin spaces between delicate little toes just seeable at the crushed dark velvet mouth. Big beautiful cowboy boots embossed with curls and swirls and twists. Duck boots topped with tufting, poofing fur. Heels to make her taller. Lovely, thoughtful shoes.
She used to be a dancer. She is not tall and thin enough, but she is exuberant and this matters. Demi-pointe, good. Now plié and one and two and yes. The barre cannot contain her, she takes to other forms and truly lives them. On stage, he considers now, that pose as she turned away: feet a little apart sprouting firmly rooted legs, right arm thrust behind her obscuring a perfect bottom and her head turned to meet him. The apostrophe: Rivka, you are wonderful.
This pose arrests him. Her hair with its fraying ends tousles with the turning of her neck; it is not perfect but asserts itself, knows itself and is secure. So too the shoes. It is nice to have nice things he thinks, a few of them and the right ones that will delight me. The shoes are something to use but also look at, let others look at and enjoy. That she does this without thinking encourages him. I too can have nice things he thinks. Let them be as genuine, as understated as the ritornello. And I will have her and enjoy them with her and everything will be wonderful. A lovely apparition.
(Metaphor or synecdoche)
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