Walking along Copley Square, your eye is drawn to a hefty fur coat with hat to match — Russian perhaps. Against black fur the points of two mirrored triangles, traced in bleach-yellow lines, fill the back and meet in the middle, implying an hourglass figure where there is none. Long, coarse blonde hair flutters like a flag in the gap between hat and coat.
Thick fingers hold a cigar in a diameter to match. An inch of ash clings to the end, and a trail of smoke follows behind. You cough.
The coat stretches down until it is arrested by knees. Below are dark wool dress pants with a hint of pinstripe. You note they create a textbook medium break as they meet polished men's oxford dress shoes.
Your eyes slide to the left, towards the noise of wheels on brick paving. A faded red rolling backpack shows it's age.
The distance between you increases — his pace is fast. As he pulls away you see his profile. Dark sunglasses atop a strong nose. Chiseled bone structure. Deep creases everywhere, as if he were a chainsaw sculpture. Red complexion. Another moment and he is gone.