Polish

He hated Leo's guts. As he assured a puckered little monsignor of the quality of the brand's leather uppers, he looked across at Leo tossing a shiny heel from one hand to the other, on his knees before a delighted matron stuffed in brown fur. Nothing wrong with positivity, surely, or enthusiasm, or even what you might call spark—nontheless, the flourish disgusted him. He hoped no one could guess that such an agreeable person would harbor red daggers for another seemingly agreeable person. Then of course, he hated his own guts too; every accidental glimpse of his polished black oxfords reflected in the low shoe-store mirrors made him inexplicably embarrassed, slightly ill.