Miranda didn’t trust her mirrors so she crawled out of herself for an objective look. It was a nasty trip, through a spongy maze of gray matter, past the eyes, and down the nose. If she had known the route was going to be so twisted and sticky, she would not have worn her cocktail shoes.
When she finally made it out, she slid down her upper lip to the floor and took stock of herself.
She was not impressed.
So she spun away in dismay only to trip on a sneaker and fall flat on her back.
The standing Miranda, who was still preparing for a night out, stepped forward to grab a purse and promptly impaled her snide supine self on a stiletto, whereupon she was possessed by such an inexplicable sense of relief that she removed the heels and threw them in the trash.
The sneaker held its tongue.
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