Fierce at the Airport

April 23, 2009

Regal.

He walks in haughtily, head aloft like a bourgeous fashionista princess; then sits on the hard plastic bench, legs crossed with symetrical precision and poise. He is pure black-and-white–striped hoodie subsumed by a black denim jacket, checked sneakers, black jeans. 

One lone red button, marking his right breast like a bullethole, offsets the nouveau noir packaging. Even his smooth ebony skin feels a part of the wardrobe, some affectation or trapping to match immaculately with the rest of his Statement of Purpose.

His studied attitude relaxes momentarily as he checks his I-Phone, a look of reverie on his face while a small white earbud fills him with some object of cherished amusing bemusement. Happy little child sneak-thieves away the poseur for a few unaffected moments.

Soon the studied pretense reconstructs itself: He fastidiously whips out a small tin of some sort of pomade/gel, dabbing his fingers and applying the unguent to his close-cropped scalp like a bumblebee cleaning excess pollen from its head. He’s fierce now.

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