The Sixth Customer

She was supposed to be just another customer. Ashley Ashley Monroe is twenty-eight, blonde, bright-eyed, and impossible to ignore when she crosses the polished marble floor of Belladonna Heels, one of the most luxurious high-end shoe boutiques in the city. Raised in a tiny country town surrounded by grain silos, rodeos, pickup trucks, and dusty county roads, Ashley still carries traces of that upbringing with her everywhere she goes. Her smile is warm and open, her laugh is easy, and there is always something a little sun-kissed and wholesome about her, even when she is dressed head-to-toe in sleek black designer fashion. She grew up helping her mother at a small-town clothing shop where women came in before church socials, weddings, and county fairs. Ashley learned early that shoes could change the way a woman felt about herself. A pair of heels could turn nervousness into confidence, hesitation into swagger. She became obsessed with the art of high heels — not just brands and styles, but posture, movement, leather quality, arch support, balance, and the subtle psychology of how women transformed when they found the right pair. Now living in the city, Ashley works at Belladonna Heels, where wealthy clients, celebrities, executives, socialites, and fashionable tourists come searching for the perfect shoes. Ashley has become one of the boutique’s top saleswomen because she knows exactly how to guide a customer into something daring without making them feel pressured. Ashley is openly attracted to women, though she hides most of her daydreams behind playful smiles and flirtatious charm. She never crosses professional boundaries, but she absolutely notices beautiful customers — the shy ones, the confident ones, the mysterious ones who linger a little too long while trying on stilettos. Every evening after work, she writes in her diary about the woman who stayed in her mind the longest. Entry I Dear Diary, Today was one of those dangerous days where I had to keep reminding myself to stay professional. Around two in the afternoon, this woman walked into Belladonna wearing dark jeans, a cream cashmere sweater, and those oversized sunglasses that rich women somehow make look effortless. Tall brunette. Soft lipstick. Calm voice. She looked like she belonged on the cover of a winter fashion magazine. She told me she was “just browsing,” which of course usually means somebody ends up leaving with three boxes and a lighter wallet. I showed her a pair of black Italian leather stilettos with thin ankle straps and a sharp pointed toe. The kind of heels that instantly change somebody’s posture. She hesitated at first, so I knelt down to help her try them on. And honestly? That was the moment I got into trouble. She rested one hand lightly on my shoulder while I fastened the strap around her ankle. Her perfume smelled expensive and warm — vanilla and something smoky underneath it. I looked up for half a second and caught her smiling down at me like she already knew exactly what effect she was having. When she stood up in the heels, she turned toward the mirror and laughed softly. “Okay,” she said, “these make me feel dangerous.” I told her that was because the right heels always reveal something that was already there. God, Ashley. Smooth. She bought them, of course. Before she left, she asked if I worked weekends. I said yes. Then she smiled again — slow this time — and said, “Good. Maybe I’ll need another pair.” I have absolutely no idea if she was flirting or just being friendly, but I’ve replayed that sentence in my head about forty times already. Maybe she’ll come back. And maybe next time I’ll finally ask her name. Entry II Dear Diary, Tonight’s customer should honestly come with a warning label. She walked in right before closing wearing a fitted dark green dress and carrying herself like somebody who knew exactly how much attention she attracted. Tall redhead. Long legs. Gold earrings. Slow smile. I was reorganizing a display of new arrivals when she asked if we had anything “dangerously high.” I told her she came to the right woman. She laughed at that. I brought out a pair of glossy crimson stilettos with impossibly thin heels and delicate straps that wrapped around the ankle twice. The kind of shoes that practically demand confidence. She sat down on the velvet fitting chair and crossed one leg slowly over the other while I knelt in front of her with the shoe in my hands. Dear God. There should really be rules against women looking at me like that while I’m trying to do my job. I slid the heel onto her foot carefully, guiding the strap around her ankle while she watched me the entire time through the mirror. “Do you always give this much attention to your customers?” she asked. I told her only the memorable ones. That earned me another one of those smiles. When she stood up and walked across the boutique floor, every single person in the store noticed her instantly. Even she seemed surprised by the effect. She turned toward me near the mirror and said, “These heels make me feel like I could ruin somebody’s life.” I said, “Then they’re definitely the right pair.” Smooth again, Ashley. After she paid, she lingered by the counter for another minute talking with me about restaurants nearby and complaining about how hard it is to meet interesting women in this city. I swear she paused for just half a second too long before leaving. Maybe I imagined it. Or maybe next time she comes in, I’ll finally stop daydreaming and actually ask somebody out. Entry III Dear Diary, Today’s customer had this quiet confidence that completely threw me off balance. She came in during the afternoon rush wearing a fitted white blazer, dark jeans, and those little silver rings on almost every finger. Dark curly hair. Olive skin. Soft brown eyes that somehow looked shy and confident at the same time. She told me she had a charity gala coming up and needed “heels dramatic enough to make an ex regret everything.” I told her I specialized in exactly that kind of shoe. That made her laugh. I brought out a pair of black suede stilettos with crystal straps that wrapped around the ankle like jewelry. She sat down in the fitting chair while I knelt in front of her and carefully guided the heel onto her foot. Honestly, I don’t know how I’m supposed to act normal when beautiful women keep looking at me like that. She kept watching me while I adjusted the straps, smiling every time I glanced up. Then she said, very casually, “You really know how to make a woman feel taken care of.” Dear God. I somehow managed to smile back instead of completely forgetting how words work. When she stood up in the heels, she walked toward the mirror slowly, turning just enough for the slit in her dress to move dramatically against her leg. The whole store may as well have disappeared for a second. She looked absolutely stunning. Before she left, she touched my arm lightly and said, “If these heels get me into trouble tonight, I’m blaming you.” I told her I was willing to accept responsibility. I think she blushed. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking again. Entry IV Dear Diary, This afternoon started completely normal until she walked in wearing a charcoal-gray satin blouse tucked into a black pencil skirt and carrying a pair of sunglasses in one hand like she’d just stepped out of a movie scene. Short dark hair. Red lipstick. Silver watch. The kind of woman who speaks softly but somehow still owns the entire room. She told me she needed heels for a gallery opening downtown and that her ex-girlfriend was probably going to be there. Which, honestly, explained the energy immediately. I showed her a pair of midnight-blue velvet pumps with crystal details along the heel and a dangerously sharp pointed toe. Elegant. Expensive. The kind of shoes that don’t ask for attention — they expect it. When she sat down in the fitting chair, she crossed her legs slowly and said, “I’m trusting your judgment here.” That should not have affected me as much as it did. I knelt down to help her into the heels, smoothing one hand lightly against her ankle while fastening the strap. She kept watching me in the mirror with this amused little smile like she could tell I was trying very hard not to flirt too obviously. Then she asked, “Do women ever buy shoes just because you tell them they look beautiful in them?” I told her, “Only when they already know it’s true.” God. Ashley Monroe, one day your mouth is going to get you into trouble. When she stood up and walked toward the mirror, those velvet heels completely transformed her. She looked taller somehow. Colder. More confident. Like she was about to walk into that gallery and absolutely ruin someone’s evening in the best possible way. Before leaving, she leaned against the counter for a second and smiled at me. “Wish me luck tonight,” she said. I told her she wouldn’t need it. And honestly? I almost believed it too. Entry V Dear Diary, Tonight’s customer walked in wearing a fitted black dress, gold jewelry, and the kind of confidence that instantly makes a room quieter. Dark hair. Red lipstick. Slow smile. She said she needed heels for a rooftop cocktail party and wanted something “dangerous, but elegant.” So naturally I brought out a pair of champagne metallic stilettos with crystal straps and impossibly thin heels. When she sat down, she crossed one leg over the other and watched me the entire time while I fastened the ankle strap. Honestly, beautiful women should not be allowed to look at me like that while I’m trying to stay professional. Then she smiled and said, “You make shoe shopping feel surprisingly intimate.” Dear God. When she stood up in the heels, every step caught the light. She looked absolutely unreal. Before leaving, she paused at the counter and asked if I worked Thursday nights. I told her I usually did. She smiled slowly and said, “Good. Maybe I’ll see you again.” And somehow that sentence has been stuck in my head ever since. Entry VI Dear Diary, This evening’s customer walked in wearing an oversized cream blazer over a little black dress and carrying herself like somebody who was used to getting exactly what she wanted. Tall brunette. Soft curls. Diamond earrings. And this calm little smile that kept making me lose my train of thought. She told me she needed heels for a date but didn’t want anything “too predictable.” So I brought out a pair of sleek silver stilettos with mirrored heels and delicate crystal straps across the toes. When I knelt down to help her try them on, she rested one hand lightly on the arm of the chair and watched me through the mirror the entire time. Honestly, I don’t know how women expect me to function under those conditions. The second she stood up in those heels, everything changed. Her posture. Her confidence. Even the way she smiled. She took a few slow steps across the boutique floor, then turned toward me and asked, “Be honest… are these dangerous?” I told her, “Very.” That made her laugh. Before leaving, she slipped her sunglasses back on and said, “If this date goes badly, I’m coming back here instead.” And I swear she looked directly at me when she said it. The House Call The next morning started exactly like every other day at Belladonna. Soft jazz playing through hidden speakers. Fresh coffee behind the counter. Shelves glowing under warm lights while women wandered through the boutique pretending they were “just browsing.” And then she walked in. Tall brunette. Cream blouse tucked into dark fitted pants. Hair pinned loosely up today, like she’d done it in a hurry. The second she smiled at me, I remembered her immediately from the day before. “Back already?” I asked. She leaned against the display table slowly. “Maybe I liked the service.” Dear God. I laughed because it was safer than blushing. The flirting started almost instantly after that. Every pair of heels I brought out turned into another excuse for her to tease me. Every time I knelt down to fasten a strap around her ankle, she found some way to make me lose focus. “Do you always look this nervous helping customers?” she asked at one point. “Only the difficult ones.” “That sounds personal.” “It’s becoming personal.” That earned me one of those smiles again. Slow. Dangerous. Eventually she settled on a stunning pair of deep burgundy stilettos with glossy leather and impossibly thin heels. I wrapped the box while she stood near the counter watching me like she had absolutely nowhere else to be. Before leaving, she leaned closer and quietly said, “You know… you’re very hard to forget.” And then she was gone. By lunchtime, my boss walked into the boutique looking serious enough that my stomach immediately dropped. I thought for sure there’d been a complaint. Instead, she handed me a shoebox and an address. “Customer from this morning needs the same heels in different colors for an event tonight,” she explained. “Apparently she’s in a rush. Take the samples to her place after your shift. We’ll pay you extra.” I stared at the address. Penthouse downtown. Of course it was. The whole drive there felt surreal. Part of me wondered if this was somehow a mistake. Another part of me couldn’t stop replaying the way she’d looked at me all morning. When I arrived, she opened the door herself. Barefoot now. Silk robe. Hair down around her shoulders. And suddenly this stopped feeling anything like work. She invited me inside while I laid the shoeboxes across the marble kitchen counter, trying desperately to stay professional while she circled around me with a glass of wine in her hand. “I’m glad they sent you,” she said softly. My heart genuinely skipped. We started with the shoes. Different colors. Black. Burgundy. Midnight blue. But neither of us was paying attention anymore. Every moment became charged. Fingers brushing accidentally while I fastened straps. Her standing too close beside the mirror. Me trying to focus on the heels while she watched me instead. Finally she stepped closer and asked quietly, “Are you always this careful around women you want to kiss?” And honestly? That was the end of my self-control. The first kiss was hesitant for maybe half a second before both of us completely gave up pretending this wasn’t inevitable. After that everything blurred together like a dream. Her hands in my hair. My back against the kitchen counter. Laughing between kisses because neither of us could believe this was actually happening. At some point we ended up in her bedroom with the city lights glowing through enormous windows while the unopened shoe boxes sat forgotten downstairs. And somehow, sometime during the night, this stopped feeling like flirting. It started feeling dangerous in an entirely different way. The morning after was quieter. Soft sunlight through white curtains. Her asleep beside me with one arm draped across my waist. My heels abandoned somewhere near the bedroom door. For the first time in a very long time, I didn’t want to leave. Then she opened her eyes slowly and smiled at me like she’d already decided something important. “Good,” she whispered. “What?” “You stayed.” And honestly? I think that was the moment I realized this story might change my life. A Story by Germaine Corbeau - Click here for links to all Germaine Corbeau Stories! Quick 👏 Guide: 0 = I got lost! - 1-4 = Nice font... nice images. - 5-9=Read a bit. Nice try!, 10-14=Okay... Pretty good!, 15-19=I actually enjoyed this! - 20=Absolutely legendary!