“What’s his story?” I asked D. while we waited for pizza during out lunch hour.
“Who?” D. asked.
“That guy. The old one,” I said. “In all white. He’s kind of like an aging unicorn, no?” The man (of a certain age) was dressed in white. White shirt. White pants. White belt. White shoes. I imagined that he had opened his closet, and thought, hey, it’s Tuesday. White Tuesday..
D. tilted his head to take a sidelong peek. “Not sure, but I’ll take a look when I can.”
“Look at his ring, when you do.”
His ring was one of the first eyecatching things I had noticed. While he was ahead of us in line, he had pushed his credit card forward on the counter, it kind of stood out on his ring finger. It was massive, extending from knuckle to knuckle in a swirling weave of gold, capped at both ends with a thin band. It effectively replaced a third of his finger.
“Ok, I’ll look. I did see his chain. Nice, right?”
It was hard to miss, when his disco shirt was unbuttoned to midchest. Flashes of John Basedow’s website, covers of romance novels, and now this guy. Moustachioed, euro-70s, and bald. I half expected strains of Disco Duck to play over the PA system. No such luck. He moved to the stool and burned the image of his fancy shoes in my brain. “Wow. Just wow.”
As they walked out, D. noted that the ring on his finger was on his right hand.