There was nothing more damning than the click her heels made on these floors. The sound was the same as it had been for the last decade. Sometimes on these tiles, sometimes on others. But designer heels on high-end corporate tiling and hardboard clicked the same wherever you were.
Today, it was the top floor of their building, in a boardroom that overlooked the street. Below her and her coworkers, the sidewalk and asphalt churned with faces, arms, and signs. The protesters broke past the police line.
As she and her suited counterparts watched the boiling sea below, a subtle ache began in the arches of her feet.
Ninety floors below, the protesters overtook security and alarms blared.
The men around her shifted nervously in their own leather loafers and eyed her sideways. After years of meetings, corporate retreats, and company Christmas parties, they saw her face in the screaming women below. When they scattered, they seemed to run from her as well.
With the elevators out the mob caught them in the stairwells. The noises echoed up through the concrete. She pressed her hands to her ears. For the last decades they’d made her life hell, commenting on the blouses, her hair, the cocktail dresses she’d squeezed herself into. But, they’d been her staff, her bosses, her friends.
The sound of broken doors cracked through the upper floors.
She couldn’t run in her arched shoes, the frantic clicking did nothing except to advertise her presence. When the mob poured into the ninety-first floor they saw none of themselves in her.