Whenever I wear flip-flops, I feel like I should apologize for it. "I'm sorry. When I rolled out of bed to come over, I couldn't be troubled with putting on socks and shoes. Have you seen the state of my dresser? Most of my time getting ready for work is spent searching for a matching pair of socks. I might as well try to reconcile a calculus equation. It would be less stressful.

Shoes? Laces? Tying? It's a whole big thing. So I found these bits of rubber and plastic that just kind of sit under my feet, kept awkwardly in place by a strap between my toes. You should try them. I won't hold it against you, as long as you let me slide, too.

It pains me to point out, though, that you might be looking at this all wrong. I didn't feel the need to put something on my feet -- anything, in fact, from two pieces of cardboard to masses of electrical tape -- to avoid walking on your dirty floor. To the contrary, your floor isn't dirty enough. What will really make me appreciate coming over is flipping up detritus to become trapped between my foot and the sandal; then, with each step I'll grind those bits of your life into the soles of my feet. Cracker crumbs, the plastic ring from a gallon of milk, whatever the hell that is -- all of it reminds me of you and the fun time we've had. I'll take all this with me now and see what other surprises I've picked up when I get home."

"What do you think of my new sandals?"
"I forgive you."