I was recently homeless, but with the help of a charity in my area, I cleaned myself up and now got a job! It’s at a fancy women’s shoe store. The women who come into the shop are the ultra-rich, the kind who always get their way. I still feel like an imposter being around them, even in my servile role – recommending and fitting them for shoes. Most of my time is spent fetching a pair of shoes, or on my knees taking them on or off their feet.

One afternoon, as I was polishing a shoe for the window display, the door chimed and a woman entered. There was something odd about her. She had a commanding presence and a sharp, disdainful gaze that made my stomach tighten, even more so than the other wealthy customers. But her attire caught me the most off guard: a tatty black dress paired with nearly disintegrated black flats. I could smell a feminine but sweaty scent permeate the air. If not for her distinct wealthy attitude, I may have thought she was homeless.

With a snap of her fingers, she pointed to the floor. “Down. I need new shoes.” she demanded impatiently.

Startled, I managed a quick reply. “Yes, miss, absolutely.” I knelt down, unsure of what to make of her, but fully aware I had a job to do. “Let me take your shoes off.”

As I removed her shoes, a sharp, acidic odor hit me, causing my eyes to water. The smell was overpowering, and I hesitated, caught off guard. Her feet were caked with bits of grime, and a mushy black residue clung to the insides of her flats. Her feet glistened with sweat.

She watched me with a knowing smirk, seemingly aware of the effect her presence—and her feet—had on me. “What’s the matter?” she taunted, arching an eyebrow. “Never sniffed toes before? Don’t make me complain to your manager.”

Trying to maintain my composure, I glanced up at her. “What kind of shoes are you looking for today, miss?”

“Fetch me your most expensive pair.” she said sharply.

“Of course, right away,” I replied, hurrying to the back room. There, I selected a pair of black Louboutins with the iconic red sole—shoes that screamed luxury, priced at a staggering $2,000.

Returning to the floor, I knelt to present her the shoes. She slipped them on with the precision of someone used to getting what she wanted. As she stood, admired herself in the mirror, and took a few testing steps, her demeanor shifted to one of smug satisfaction.

She gestured towards her abandoned flats. “There’s a little treat in there for you.” Puzzled, I brought my face close to the flats, looking for what it could be - a tip? The smell hit me hard. “Go on, a bit deeper.” My nose was almost touching the gunk inside. I still couldn’t see anything. I blushed.

Without warning, she turned on her heel and dashed toward the door, Louboutins clicking briskly across the hardwood floor. “You can keep 'em!”

“Miss! Wait!” I shouted, but she was already out the door, weaving seamlessly into the crowd outside.

My manager soon appeared, his expression tight with frustration. “That’s going to cost us, you know. You’re responsible for those shoes,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, but your month’s paycheck will have to cover the loss. Just go home today, Henry.”

I felt the blood drain from my face. “I understand,” I murmured, watching the opportunity I had worked so hard for slip through my fingers. I wondered how I would get through the month without my pay.

Dejected, I gathered my things, spotting the woman’s discarded flats lying abandoned on the floor. On impulse, I picked them up, their scent still strong. I slipped them into my bag, not entirely sure why. That evening, as I settled into my modest charity apartment, I took out the flats, their scent still pungent and heavy in the air. There was something almost hypnotic about the aroma.

Modify the story but with a bit more dialogue lines. Have the woman still use casual/vernacular (yet superior) language. I use servile and respectful language.