We left the store with bags full of clothes that actually fit — shirts that didn't strain across my chest, pants that reached my ankles, something called "boxer briefs" that Elowen insisted I needed even though I didn't see the point. And three pairs of sandals that I tolerated only because my mate had chosen them.
"He's still going to be barefoot at home," Elowen warned Rowan. "The sandals are for public only."
"Wait," Rowan said, stopping by another display. "What about these?"
She held up a pair of slippers — not like Elowen's fuzzy cat ones, but simple slides. No back, just a soft top part that went over the toes.
I took them. Slipped one on. My heel was free. My toes were covered but not trapped. Soft.
"For inside?" Elowen asked.
"For inside," I agreed. These I could tolerate. F
