Several Sundays ago, as I was riding my bike to work, I saw a man.
He was very well dressed. Stylish, obviously expensive jeans. A sharp-looking sport coat. A professionally-pressed shirt, pink, with a white collar.
He was walking south on Clark Street, a cigarette in one hand, held, I would say, with a jaunty air.
Well, perhaps walking is a bit too kind. Staggering, if only slightly, would be more accurate.
He caught sight of me as I passed by. He called out to me: "Hey! How do I look?!"
I didn't respond.
At work, I related this anecdote to co-workers which led to a delightful discussion of The Things One Sees When One Goes To Work On Sunday Morning. Folks making the Walk of Shame, out and about on Sunday morning in clothes so well suited to a Saturday night at the bar.
I couldn't help but wonder, where was this guy coming from at 10 in the morning on a sunny Sunday morning? A bar? A party?
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