I dressed for dinner. Meaning, I rummaged through Mortimer’s closet. Meaning, the clothes were old duds from the seventies, I was guessing, based on the polyester that soon hugged me like a cocoon. It was hot. It was sort of itchy. I looked like the hipsters that roamed San Francisco. The clothes were worth far more now than when they’d been bought but were no less hideous.
I had on bell-bottom slacks, grey with blue lines running up and down the length of them. The shirt was blue, blue with grey lines, tight. People in olden times didn’t seem to like their clothes to breathe. Or maybe they didn’t like to breathe when wearing them. I slid on some black socks, leather shoes with a high heel. I was going commando. I looked like a rock star. Or a pimp. Especially with the cap on, a cap with
