After children’s sneakers, adult sandals are the most prone to abandonment.
I found both of these in Bloomfield in mid-September 2010, a dry week in the low-60s, the tail-end of sandal season. The former belonged to an adult (Victoria’s Secret does not make kids sizes) and the latter belonged to a child (or a petite adult).
With so few clues, I’m forced to imagine. Because both lay in the grass, I choose to believe the wearers flung them off in a fit of September whimsy, spurred by the sensation of leaves brushing ankles, a defiant stand against the approaching chill and wetness of another autumn, one last chance to clutch summer by the toes. Or: drunkenness.