Januariad

Umair appears between cars, immaculately dressed. His clothes are perfectly clean, razor folded, and just a year or two behind stylish. Jeans a little too bangled, shoes a little too clumpy. His jumper, however, is fitted to his tapered frame, smooth as a shop window. His shirt shows signs of embroidered details around the collar. From what can be seen, it is a very nice shirt.

It would be unfair to say that Umair swaggers, but there’s a jangle in his walk. A looseness in the hips and elbows. His thin lips form a perpetual half-smile, his eyes flit over yours, never landing. He’s too polished for the streets he saunters, but he rarely strays further south. The phone that jumps between his palm and his back pocket is a shimmering purple slate—he can just stretch his slender fingers around its edges. The phone is wrong. So many small details are wrong, but he smells magnificent.