Perhaps it’s the age. Perhaps it’s the humidity. Perhaps it’s the shoddy quality.
A waitress was hovering over our table at dinner tonight, taking orders. She took a step back, gave a stifled gasp. We all looked over to see her leaning back onto the door frame behind her. She called a busboy over, jabbering in Thai, holding out her arms as if she was expecting him to pull her back upright.
He did just that. She hopped forward, left foot bare. Those of us within sight looked down. Her stiletto heel had punched right through the hardwood floor and sunk heel deep into the flooring.