Sunday Looks

The thin tined comb pulled hairs tight against his scalp, cutting through pomade. A new blade glided down the side of his face and around its contours and curves, revealing smooth skin. He buttoned his solid white collared shirt and tucked it into khakis, pulled the laces of his brown leather shoes taut and tied a knot. To be seen was inevitable and he wanted people to see the easy precision in his execution of all things, including his Sunday ensemble.

Next door, another man slowly rose from a comfy couch and reached for a pair of sweat socks he'd brought downstairs that morning. He put on the socks and stretched, arms in the air impossibly attempting to connect fingertips with the ceiling. He felt a little light headed and sat back down to put on his beat up old sneakers. His left hand stroked his head's oily hair and he realized he looked like a guy who'd just rolled out of bed, though he'd been awake for hours.

These men noticed each other as they left their houses. One stepped out for a walk with no particular place to go. The other had errands and a friend to meet for coffee. They made eye contact and nodded simultaneously in silence, and went about their days. The city absorbed them both, they lived in partnership with its mechanisms, leaning on each other and everyone else. They were free.