“Are they new?”
“Kind of. They’re not the sort of thing I’d usually wear. I guess my feet just aren’t used to being stuffed up in shoes like this.”
“Why are you wearing them then?” I asked, I tried to mask my intrigue with a little chuckle.
“I was told by HR that I had to dress more appropriately, whatever that means.” She shook her head and rolled her eyes.
I averted her gaze at that revelation. I was probably one of the people responsible for that, but I had changed my opinion, I really had. I tried to reassure her. “Yes, I had noticed. You usually dress so nicely and I’ve noticed you always wear such fashionable shoes.” I stopped myself before going any further, but felt my face reddening from my frankness.
Emilia tilted her head slightly and offered me a curious look. The rubbing of her foot ceased. “I’ve never had a case with you before, right?”
“We haven’t, no,” I said.
“Oh, well, yes, I love my shoes. It’s a bit of a bummer that I can’t wear them anymore. I like my toes being free.”
Being a judge, I usually command a level of respect from the other court employees; but Emilia seemed to speak to me with comfort and relaxation, as if we’d known each other a long time and there was no need for formalities. From somewhere, deep within me, I felt the urge to give in to her. I wanted to give her the opportunity to get her way and see if she would take it. I can’t explain where it came from, but the thought of her freely strutting around my courtroom in her heels gave me an idea.
“Tell you what,” I said. “You can wear whatever you like when you’re working with me.” I tried to sound like I was doing her a favour, when really the offer was fuelled entirely by my own desires. I was also somehow apprehensive of her response, fearing she’d call me out at any moment. Even though my words were largely harmless, I was nervous that she’d see right through me. My back felt wet with sweat.
“Really?” She said, again with that obvious curiosity in her eyes. She looked me over intently, as if sizing me up and pondering my intentions. “Well, if you don’t mind-I’d really like that.”
And with that it was settled.
Emilia’s attire would vary each day depending on whether it was one of my hearings that she sat in. If she was typing up for a different judge, she’d wear formal, smart clothes with closed pumps. But if she was working with me, those dresses and revealing shoes would come out again, and I’d spend most of the day ogling her perfect feet.
We grew somewhat closer over the next few weeks, only in a friendly capacity. It was all polite, but mundane talk. She’d tell me how her weekend went or what she had planned for the evening, all while dangling and twisting her heels. As discreet as I tried to be, my glances downwards were noted and I’d catch the tiniest of smirks from her every time she caught me. And she really took advantage of my relaxed rules. She’d spend her breaks playing around on her phone, taking photos of herself and sometimes of whatever pair of shoes she was wearing that day, most likely just to show her friends. What I’d have given to get my hands on those. Sometimes I’d catch her browsing through designer shoe web pages, no doubt searching for her next pair. She was a fashionista at heart, and I provided her with the platform to flaunt it all day long without repercussion.
Her behaviour around me didn’t go unnoticed and some of the other judges voiced their disapproval at me letting her wear whatever she liked. They claimed I was making a mockery of the court. I’d had some grief in the past with me being the only female judge, but through my judgements and professionalism, I’d won the senior judges over and gained their respect. My behaviour with Emilia was putting that at risk. It didn’t help that I was in agreement with them only weeks before. They seemed at a loss regarding my sudden turnaround.
I played my relaxed approach to her appearance as a female-empowerment thing; whereby as long as she did her job well and was professional in that capacity, she was free to wear what she liked. It was a load of rubbish, but an inspired reasoning. I was almost proud. Most backed off after that explanation I’d plucked from the air, not wanting to be accused of sexism. If only they knew my true motives.
As the weeks passed by, I complimented Emilia often on her choice of shoes. Gradually, she became a lot more forward in showing off her footwear to me. She’d turn her seat in such a way that I’d have a full view of her legs and shoes during court. If she was in a pair of sandals, she’d slip them off and arch and flex her feet, often with a sideways glance to see if I’d noticed. And I did. I noticed everything, for instance that her toenail polish changed colour on a weekly basis. Her teasing had become ruthless. And the shoes, every day they’d alternate. If she wore a pair I’d never seen before, she’d ask me whether I liked them.
“Do you like my new heels, Judge Sanders?” She’d asked one morning, before court had commenced.
I tried to appear nonchalant, but I suspected my enthusiasm crept through. “Very nice Emilia, and your pink polish is very pretty.”
“Thanks Judge,” she grinned. “I’m glad you approve.”
On many occasions during a hearing, I’d stare a bit too long and she’d turn and catch me. My embarrassment was always heightened by an amused shake of her head or roll of her eyes. It was never explicitly voiced between us, but I was increasingly paranoid that Emilia was fully aware of my weakness when it came to her shoes. It embarrassed and ashamed me. Perhaps she just thought I was a sad old lesbian with a crush. I’d been starting to wonder if that was far from the truth, such was the level of my infatuation.
I’d sometimes feel immense regret when I returned home after a long day to my husband. It just wasn’t right that I should be this infatuated with my female stenographer’s feet and the footwear she chose to adorn them with. If anyone knew, especially my husband, I would be absolutely mortified. The age difference just made it all the worse. I tried to shake it off, however, I simply couldn’t resist looking whenever an opportunity presented itself. The next day in work, there I’d be, gazing at Emilia’s swinging feet. The exchanges between us were always civil and harmless, so I felt safe in my secret admiration and enabling of her flaunting. But still, that paranoia brewed at the back of my mind.
Things continued in the same way until one day Emilia came to work in a pair of enclosed ballet flats. My face must have visibly sagged as she immediately picked up on my disappointment.
“What’s up, Judge? Something wrong?” She asked with a smirk, as if baiting me to voice my disappointment and cross a line. By this point her tone with me was absolutely informal. I’d had many opportunities to put her straight on that, but a quick glance down at her feet and I couldn’t find the words. She even popped her heel out of one flat and twisted her foot on the ball, baiting me even further.
“Umm.” I struggled between shying away and asking her why her feet were covered up.