[ WP ] You live in a world where walking a mile in someone else 's shoes gives you one of their skills . You work in a used shoe store .

Mother is a world renowned cobbler. No small feat in such a competitive profession. She served the rich and poor alike, albeit with different prices for different services. She'd often serve clients at the forefront of their fields who were looking to preserve their positions. Many felt threatened by the possibility of someone walking their way to greatness and thus did their best to wear the same pair of shoes for their entire lives, or at least for the part after they gained fame. Mother always smiled and assured them that `` talent dilution'' as they called it, was less of an issue than they anticipated. And when they inevitably chose to ignore her and demand that their shoes be restored to their former glory, Mother would bow, take their shoes, and tell them to come back tomorrow. 
 
 Mother was an honest woman, and her clients recognized it. You'd be surprised by how many unscrupulous cobblers there were, keeping the old shoes of the great and passing a brand new set as their refurbished old ones. Mother had built enough rapport with many to have them leave their shoes with her in their wills. Mother always had the shoes signed and certified, then prominently displayed in the front window, listed for an absurdly large sum of money. Without fail the next month would include a large bidding war, the price would inflate, and the local orphanage would receive a very large anonymous donation. Each time I would ask why she did n't just donate the shoes. She'd smile a knowing smile and ask me how I'd feel about eating a shoe. I'd protest that possessing the skill of a world-class lawyer, doctor, scientist, or musician would provide plenty of food and she'd respond by patting me on the head and saying something about hard work. As a child I ’ d often paced the rows of the store fantasizing about suddenly becoming a master at a skill. It was always something different that caught my eye. One time it was glass blowing. Another, basketball. Yet another, speech-giving. She refused let me put on any of them regardless of my insistence of gaining a fun or useful skill. She especially refused to let me wear hers, teasing me as lazy and a cheat. 
 
 Throughout my childhood, Mother taught me her skills and on the summer of my fifteenth birthday officially took me as her apprentice. I had spent much of my time in the workshop, but this was the first time I'd be doing official work full time. On my second day I borrowed an old treadmill that had been gathering dust in a friend's basement and hauled the thing into the workshop. Mother looked at me with knowing eyes but said nothing as I arranged my workstation around it, too embarrassed to meet her gaze. At the first opportunity, I snatched a pair of shoes filed under `` Breakdancing'', slipped them on, and stepped onto the treadmill as I began cutting leather. I glanced over to Mother's work station. She did n't look up, completely absorbed in her work. 
 
 “ I think it ’ s time to close up shop. ” I glanced up from my work. Mother was packing away her work, arranging her tools into neat little rows on the wall and organizing scrap material into various buckets. I must have been so absorbed in my work that I ’ d lost track of time. I glanced at the readout of the treadmill. Eight miles. That should be plenty. “ Please remember to put those shoes back. ” I glanced at Mother and blushed. Nothing I did ever escaped her. I sheepishly slid off the treadmill, out of my shoes, and back to the storefront to return them to their appropriate shelf. 
 
 “ So what did you learn today? ” asked Mother as I returned. I started discussing the nuances of various tools and shoe materials before she cut me off. “ I mean from your shoes. ” I pictured the perfect windmill. Crisp, clean, quick, powerful. I knew exactly how to do it. I found a large enough piece of open floor and threw myself at the ground. My legs quickly tied themselves into a knot and I fell gracelessly onto my butt, unable to support myself with only my arms. Mother laughed as she helped me up. 
 
 “ When did you start playing piano? ” Mother asked, her eyes glittering with amusement. 
 
 “ When I was five. ” 
 
 “ And when did you stop? ” 
 
 “ When I was twelve. ” 
 
 “ How was your piano playing when you were twelve? ” 
 
 “ Not too shabby. ” I reminisced. I was no slouch for a twelve year old pianist. 
 
 “ And how is your piano playing now? ” 
 
 I rubbed the back of my head ruefully. “ Pretty bad. ” 
 
 “ How long do you think it would take you to get back to how good you were when you were twelve? ” 
 
 I thought. “ Not seven years, but definitely longer than one or two. ” 
 
 “ So why don ’ t you? ” 
 
 “ It wouldn ’ t be worth the effort. I have other things I want to do with my time. Like learning to repair shoes. Besides, it would be frustrating, knowing how to do everything, but not actually being able to do it. ” 
 
 It finally dawned on me. 
 
 “ What else did you learn? ” 
 
 “ What do you mean? ” 
 
 “ You were on the treadmill for a solid five hours. Surely you walked a bit faster than a fifth of a mile per hour. ” 
 
 I reflected on my day and what thoughts had risen to my mind unprompted. I blushed. 
 
 “ I…may have learned how to give really good blowjobs. ” 
 
 Mother laughed and pulled me into an embrace. “ Come on, let ’ s go get some popsicles. You can show me your deep-throating technique. ” 

