July 14th, 2015
I’m sitting in my second favorite neighborhood coffee shop. A man in a full wool suit walks in the door and sits at the bar. I’ve seen him here before, he’s a regular here. His battered suede shoes belie his young face. Even in the early morning glare his face still carries the creases of a late night. His pocket square is a handkerchief. It looks like he’s reading Balzac, though it’s hard to tell from this distance.