queen and king

In a “Carrie-like” manner I hop, skip and jumped my way down Queen street. More in feeling than in shoes as my awkward black patent American Eagle flats (so last summer) were hardly Fendi.

I brush passed Queensters, and peer at store windows I should visit; considering this should be my Mecca.

Slightly out of breath with my Burberry man-bag falling everywhere, I stop in front of the neon blue glowing venue.

I was distracted by his curly black Afro, thick black rimmed glasses and jewel embellished sandals. He confessed his need to appear as un-pretentious as possible. Mostly, he required a way to continue living a lavish existence. It appeared that sartorial lifestyle coaching was not cutting it.

Fast forward and I sat again quite confidently in my three piece single breasted grey suit amongst 4 men. I was only lamenting my need to get a haircut and get my heels fixed. The man himself was there giddy with his new wares. I relaxed yet perspired profusely due to an extra vest layer that I was not accustom to.

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