Rush Hour, 4/28
He entered just as the doorway was starting to close. He took a moment to collect himself. He stood there, looking British and out of place. Like an Englishman at a Mumbai spice market. His pants, black. His shirt, black. Matching black socks and Derby. His overcoat a dark gray tweed, but his tie and cufflinks, both bright red.
He looked around assessing his options. Which empty seat to choose? He reluctantly chose the open pair by the window, setting his briefcase down gently in the seat next to him. His mouth turned down. His eyes squinted slightly. His pointy chin jutting out like a knob on a smooth panel. A look of disgust came over him. The look one might have were they about to reach into a shit-filled toilet to retrieve the wedding ring they just dropped.
He took a breath. Relaxing into the front page of The Financial Times, the horror passed.