It is a little girl’s shoe, made of pink satin with a bow that rests just above the toes. It is tattered, faded and scuffed--the girl has worn these for a long time. The dirty rubber sole has separated from the dirty pink satin where the arch of the foot would be. It gapes open like a wound--a casualty of poverty.
The hands are creased with dirt. They are smooth and tanned--almost youthful--but the nails, the edges blackened and worn, are nodding toward advanced years. They thread two large needles--they are nearly as long as the hands, and arced like a silver bows. The needles are set aside.
The hands brush a tar-like substance into the wound, and press it closed. They hammer it for a moment, encouraging an even adhesion between the flaps, then press it again. The needles return to the stage; working as a team now, one hand holds the shoe as the other thrusts one blunt rod through the stubborn rubber sole. Through the rubber then the cloth, the needles begin to repair the shoe one stitch at a time.
The hands move like pistons, pumping the needles back and fourth with such rapidity it is a wonder that one hand does not accidentally stab the other. The needles flash as they are pushed in and out and in again.
Not thirty seconds, and the wound is repaired. The insole is hammered once more, the the shoes are passed back to the customer--the little girl’s brother. The repair cost 30 Tomans; the child pays and leaves.
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