He looked ridiculous and cocky; as incredulous as that sounds, in his pale blue Oxford shirt with it's cuffs rolled tightly to the elbow. They appeared to be holding on for dear life, choking the blood supply there and swelling his forearms into great purple eggplants that I had an odd urge to slice and serve up, parmigiana style.
His Ray Ban aviators, relics of the seventies, no doubt, were perched precariously on a shellaced bed of white hair and I could almost hear him speaking to his reflection in the morning: "You're a silver fox. You've got some miles on you, but ladies love an experienced man. These aviators, they're the ticket. They're the glue that holds this ensemble together. There. Now they're perfectly placed atop my head. I can't slide them down over my eyes or it will ruin the look. I'll squint in the sunlight, but I'll look cool. This is it. The pinnacle of fashion. I'm ready." He would then glide out the door to his convertible . . .whatever. Porshe, BMW, Mercedes. Something foreign. No Mustangs for the Silver Fox. Something expensive that subtley screams Mide-Life Crisis.
His plaid pants of hunter green and navy blue clashed horridly with his shiny black loafers and George Hamilton tanned ankles. They didn't do much for the shirt either. But they hung perfectly with a crease the military would envy tracing his leg from thigh to foot. He walked with purpose and determination. An important man with places to be and people to ignore. I was surprised when he eased himself into the uncomfortable chair beside me and threw out a cheap line meant to amuse, or perhaps enthrall: "So . . . .come here often?" I sighed loudly as I rolled my eyes heavenward. This was going to be the longest oil change of my life.