This time I’m younger, living with my mom at the high-rise, sleeping on her floor. This time we’re not speaking, which is a good thing, and I have to get up for work, even better. I hadn’t tied a Windsor knot since those days and in the mirror I’m all tangled, fumbling terribly, but in this shirt I look really good. The look I’m going for for my gig next month in Kosovo, if I drop 40 pounds and get my color back. Don’t ask me. No, I didn’t get the details. And yes, dad, I didn’t ask about money. I don’t know what time I’m supposed to be there, I’m just happy to have a job. Complete with two World Wartime Americas with the Great Depression between them, it’s his damn tie I’m strangling myself with and today I’m going shopping.
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