Dad and I used to go to the mall

to press leather and sniff rubber of paracetamol-white sneakers. The ones with the proud swoosh on the side, and the bubbles in the sole that made you jump so high, you could almost touch the sky. Can I help you? the store clerk asked. No thanks, just looking, Dad would always reply. We'd walk across the atrium with the plastic plants and the rickety escalator, up to the tacky-floored food court where our shoes would glue, stick and twist. Just like Pippen and Jordan, Dad loved to joke. We'd pinch French fries from little paper packets, or take turns blowing through a straw into a small, Pepto Bismol-pink milkshake. Then we'd wipe the grease from our fingers and head to Best Buy to play Super Smash Bros on the N64. Dad was Captain Falcon, my favourite was Link. One time, some kids came, and started to point and laugh. Look at his shoes, what brand even are they, looks like he got them straight outta the trash. I glanced towards Dad. His gaze remained fixed, but I saw him grit his teeth and grip the controller and let rip a fierce Falcon Punch. Game over, Link. 

Christmas came late. I didn't ask for much. But there, under the tree, the shoes with the bubbles. No box, no tags, but new and almost gleaming white. Except for one dot of red on the tip of the tongue.