Would he still feel comfortable in brooks brothers felt trousers or those loafers with golden ornamentation or with pale white business cards being traded between moisturized
fingers. With hands clutching a cold metal pole on the subway and swaying to coltrane from his headphones would he still trade glances with the woman in good humor whites with two
black babies and a clear tub of windex and fresheners and rubber yellow gloves. Or just stand tall and straight and rigid and lifeless and keep his eyes on the black floors and the loafers and the illuminated emails shining from his palm.
With a newer suit and pay raise and the snarling of his new office and the desk with his middle aged secretary, would he still treat her kindly and keep her father's cancer in mind or instead, (next month), ask for a younger blonder girl from a better school (and bigger ****), after the man finally makes his seven figures.