The flashes of the paparazzi’s cameras blinded Zac as he stepped out of the car. The road was cold under the soles of his bare feet. He took two slow steps forward, feeling the slightly warmer, and far softer red carpet under his toes.
He smiled with confidence and began posed for the cameras, but the flashing stopped.
“Where the fuck are his shoes?” One reporter whispered to another.
“I knew it, he is on drugs. Shoot the feet!” Another instructed to his companion.
Zac felt his face blush red. He crunched his toes, but this only made for better photos. The following day the newspapers and gossip rags would be full of photos of his bare feet.
He began to walk forward, towards the door of the theatre. People were starring, but not at his face, at his naked feet.
Usually girls would be screaming his name and asking for his autograph by now, but this time there was complete silence.
He felt his eyes fill with tears and he continued to walk. Suddenly, and without warning, he tripped. He fell to the ground, his feet flying in the air behind him, displaying his dusty, crinkled bare soles.
The flashes of the cameras began again before an assistant came to help Zac up and lead him into the cinema.
The following morning, as he had expected, the mass media was full of photos of Zac lying spread eagled on the red carpet, barefooted and with his soles up to the camera.
Shit, he thought to himself, I have to suffer a whole month of this.