Tweed
His hand holds back his tweed jacket above the hip as though he were making a point. Brittle hairs break off in his mouth as he chews his beard. He is not talking and he is not wearing a tweed jacket.
The kind with patches on the elbows. It is a blue hooded sweatshirt with the letters USA and the Olympic rings embroidered on the left breast. He exhales smoke with sunken shoulder and tries to look wounded. He has never been hurt and he has never done heroin.
No one is observing this. Not even you.
