Black Cotton Blouson, Striped Poplin Shirt, Off-White Corduroy Trousers, Black Loafers

Nine in the morning downtown, the street still in the shade of the buildings opposite, and he has stopped at the stone ledge outside an old bank to wait for someone who is not there yet. The sunglasses went on at the subway steps and have not come off. The jacket is black cotton, blouson cut, collar out, done up to the middle of the chest and no further. Under it a blue striped poplin, collar out and open at the neck, tucked. The trousers are off-white corduroy, wide the whole way down, long enough to stack over flat black loafers on slim soles.

The black up top is flat and matte and the corduroy below it has a wale you can read from across the street, and that is the whole of it. A plain black jacket stops being plain the moment it sits above something with that much texture. The stripes stay at the collar where they read as a detail rather than a pattern. Keeping the shirt tucked and the jacket short is what stops a leg that wide from swallowing him. Swap the loafers for white sneakers and it turns into a Saturday. Swap the cords for black trousers and it goes out at night. Close the jacket higher only if the wind picks up, because the collar of that shirt is half of it.