Summer Clothes
@benignbaste
It’s been a while since he’s been to a reputable tailor. The last time he did, he’d been rewarded with cracked plating and bruises that had taken the better part of a fortnight to heal. A shame, truly. He hadn’t even gotten anything good out of the deal - just some panting, a bit of stray cursing, a few names thrown at him.
This iteration of Number Nine seemed at least more personable than the other more recent one. Taking notes - how quaint. Him, taking notes on what he was going to make for DD. Perhaps he was just playing it nice in the beginning, surprise him later with an array of pins and needles. Or perhaps he was what he truly presented himself to be.
It was a lovely shop on an unassuming streetcorner, though the decor was decidedly, well. Green. What else would it be if not green. But the suits and gowns in the well-kept glass windows looked to be nicely fitted to the mannequins, and he could only hope that they’d look as good on him. He sees what he’s wearing reflected in the windowpane - whites and grays, a paid vest in charcoal and mist to match, a purple pocket square. His usual, familiar, attire.
Droog taps his silver-tipped cane lightly on the sidewalk, his left hand grasping the handle. His right arm had the wrist tucked into the pocket of his pants - no need to reveal any weaknesses so early on.
And at least, he muses, a clove cigarette on his lip, the weather was being agreeable.
