Finally, the clerk reached for a box on the top shelf. Inside were the . They weren't flashy. They looked like something a very cozy monk would wear.
"Too slippery," Arthur sighed. "I need traction for the treacherous journey between the bed and the coffee maker." The Contenders
That evening, Arthur sat in his favorite chair. The draft was still there, swirling around the floorboards, but it didn't matter. His feet were in a private, climate-controlled sanctuary. He didn't read a leather-bound book, and he didn't drink a martini. He just sat there, warm and victorious, watching the sunset over his toes.
He paced the store. They were warm—gloriously warm—but he noticed a problem. The back was open. His heels were still catching the morning breeze. He needed a fortress, not a porch. The Choice
