“Do you like the marshmallow kind?”
“Helloo?” Carl says. Burkman's is strange after 4 p.m.
He turns, running a well groomed hand down his lapel in the same instance.
“Or is it the.. the chocolate?” The man’s lips are horribly chapped. His green burkman shirt is the only immaculate combination of threads on his body. Everything else is… wrong. Very, very wrong. There are multiple sweaters in his arms. The sweaters appear to be a burden. A considerable one.
“Chocolate? Marshmallow?” the man asks.
It’s the salesman, Carl reminds himself. I'm out shopping.
Carl slicks his hair back and sighs: too much gel. There is far too much gel in his hair.
“Mister. We also have raspberry. That’s a favorite.”
The jell is beginning to roll down his forehead. Carl makes a mental note. Desmond shouldn’t go as heavy on the stuff as he likes to.
“Just the chocolate,” Carl says, taking the sweater from the salesman’s arms.
“Call it brown, you idiot,” Carl mutters after the man has left.
The florescent lights in Burkman’s cast an unflattering glow upon the merchandise. Where was the class these days?
He hangs the sweater on a rack full of multi-colored coats. Carl, man of style, man of taste and subtle accents, takes his leave.
