The thermoses jangle and jostle inside a reusable grocery sack. A small bag of sugar thumps against my thigh. I miss my canvas field kit. I miss my collection of precision-made German thermoses and their matching cups.
Tara lives only a few blocks away. We’ve opted to walk, although now I’m rethinking that decision. Malcolm stops every few feet, adjusts his shoes, tugs at the tuxedo trousers. He’s pulled on the shirt, but it hangs loose and unbuttoned. Despite everything, he’s managed to make the outfit look intentional.
“Sorry, sorry,” he says after the fourth or fifth time. “These weren’t meant for hiking.” His stare turns grim as he considers the shiny black dress shoes and then the expanse of sidewalk ahead of us.
“They’re not,” I agree, “but you are rocking a James Bond thing.”
Hi
