His alarm does not go off until eight o’clock. Afterwards, he would lay awake for ten full minutes, pondering about nothing in particular while scrutinizing the intricate, nearly-invisible linings of the ceiling above his head. He would then stretch out like an alley cat, would make his bed to it’s neatest appearance, open the curtains and soak in the sun. Again, like an alley cat. When satisfied, he would close the curtains back and would then go to his tiny kitchen in his tiny yet impeccable apartment. He would need his first cup of coffee.

His first cup of coffee is really what wakes him up, not the alarm clock.

An apple, the morning news, and another cup of coffee later, he would conclude his breakfast.

By ten o’clock he would be freshly-showered and into one of his many pairs of chinos, his favorite Feal Mor Oxford L/S Shirt (though on the chillier days he would wear his Anachronorm Wool Flanel Shirt), and one of his many blazers (he loves blazers, especially the Drax Cashmere one). His favorite shoes and ties to wear to work to would be the ones from Ovadia and Sons.

He is Dressed to the Nines, one would say.

However, if one tells you about his occupation, you would probably snort, if not laugh out loud, and would probably say,

"A tailor in Oxxford Clothes? Whatever kind of job is that?!"

Snort you would, until you see him personally.

He has the skills, the passion, and the fashion sense of a critically acclaimed tailor in a critically acclaimed menswear brand, alright. Yet he has the charm of a true English gentleman and the swiftness of tongue and wordings of a politician. He walks with an air of confidence, with his chin a bit high and his chest a bit puffed. The even gait of his Snuff Suede Milford Double Buckled Shoe-clad feet are those of a man assured by his place in the world. The boyish and cheeky smile he possesses can swoon young ladies, please old ladies, and cause some involuntary blushes on some of the young men.

He knows where he is.

He knows where he is going.

Yet by the end of the day, right after the regular stop at the dim-lighted, fancy dining place with a customary young lady by his side, after the evening news and the decision-making time of what to wear tomorrow, he would stand before his reflection on the mirror above the bathroom sink. He would stand before a picture of a young man, with slightly ruffled, neatly-cut strawberry blonde hair, with a clean, shaven chin, and eyes the color of the ocean miles away from him. He would then hear distinct voices somewhere in his head,

"When are you gonna kill it, you dolt!"
"What are you doing, you bloody imbecile! Kill it! Kill it now!"

"Cassius, It's over!"

Cassius would then retreat to his neatly-made bed and sleep and dream of nothing.

His alarm clock does not go off before eight o’clock.

He does not fully wake up until he kills it.


About bananaby

a wannabe

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