Beneath his fingertips the paper slides, thin and smooth. He peruses the pictures of respectable looking folks. They've got Rolex timepieces and purebred dogs, proper looking preschoolers and french-door refrigerators. They possess style, the paradoxically subtle panache delivered by their soft smirks, slick hair, scarcely-seen charcoal socks. He too, possesses style.
He's all class, a man with a subdued and sensible taste in neckties. And a nice little spinning rack to keep them on, too, his personal color-coded rainbow twirling greyish-scarlet to greyish-aubergine. He's a man who knows where his shoe-polish is. In the morning, he drinks espresso at his bistro table. Ironic mugs with snappy phrases on them? Not for this guy. Tacky. That's not how he rolls. He's all about class. Upper middle class.
As a businessman, he takes pride in his trade. He's overqualified and still in debt to his alma mater. But he's got a briefcase. It's classy. Lots of classy men are businessmen, just look at the catalog.
Back when he was young and foolish, he might have been drawn to the photos tucked away in the back, hidden between advertisements. That's where they put the "alternative lifestyles." Starving artist? Not him. He was fit and healthy. He wasted no time on pursuits of frivolous creativity. He was a businessman. He was a classy businessman with a Rolex timepiece and an expensive espresso maker.
He was happy.
He was happy, right?
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