Traces

A man with silver-colored shoes came to my place this evening. I hadn't seen him before, or his shoes either, but we had arranged to meet, basically to exchange favours: I gave him a couple of empty butane gas cylinders, and he gave me two precious round spaces for whatever I want to do with them. He was very punctual, and I liked that. I mean, I was prepared to give him the canisters, but I didn't want to give any of my time away waiting for an unknown swapper.
So he came- he was a kind old man- said thank you so much, took the canisters and kissed me goodbye. That was sweet, and quite unexpected too, but it was all right. He left all grateful, and only while I was closing the door did I notice that he was wearing those flamboyant shoes.
Then I couldn't wait to make the most of my newly reconquered space on the terrace. So I went there and I found out the floor had been left with two circles, the marks of the cylinder's borders, made of dust, dry leaves and time. I put one foot inside each circle, then I made myself a coffee.
I really came to hate those two canisters, it was like having two fat orange old ladies permanently on the terrace. Sometimes, on rainy nights, I had watched them, standing there, withstanding all the changes weather has to offer, bearing my indifference. Now they're not there anymore, but I thought getting rid of them would make a more substancial difference. I dind't expect, after cleaning the terrace floor, that there would still be marks left.
It's ok, the cylinders are not there, but I will always be able to say they were there, and I won't be less accurate when I say where. And even if I decided to replace the floor tiles, or sell the flat, while we're at it, there will always be the footsteps of the silver-colored shoes, the disturbance of knowing I won't be able to get rid of all the invisible traces stuck to everything left behind.