My Urban Inspiration Man

This reflection is not about “what might have been” or even “what is not.” Riding the El while visiting Chicago, I found myself behind a gentleman whose black topcoat sat beside his black attaché and moving around in his hand, the brightest red apple I have ever seen.

He was wrapped in wool from the rust-colored socks to the gray/brown tweed slacks and huge-hooked, high-collared gray sweater. His brown-rimmed spectacles sat on his high, angular nose further solidifying his sophisticated countenance.

I could only capture one angle, his high collar and the back of his head.

I traced his neckline, examining the boundary between flesh and hair, which was classically quaffed and brown, his reddish, well-manicured facial hair lending age and masculinity to his lean frame. The only words I heard were solid, heavy, and sure.

He was the urban man who I thought I would become when I move to Chicago. I am not disappointed that my metamorphosis did not occur, but for a solid 20 minutes, I floated with the man of my inspiration.

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