Last spring, my homework was to people-watch and write about it. This is who I saw:
It takes him 45 seconds to comb his hair in the morning, to achieve that perfect, windswept arch. Quick but calculated, a little bit of gel but not too much. To him, it's an art---just like the sculpture he is observing, just like the next building he is constructing in his head.
Art, like the carefully tailored seam on his jeans but not jeans---a little fancier, a little more 1950s convertible-driving young writer; to match his antique watch of course, probably a grandfathers.
He moves with the fluidity of a carefully trained internal metronome. Some today might call it swagger, to him, it's how a gentleman walks. He leans casually against a chalkboard in thought, percolating, his body built like one of those slim pilots from the tin-type war pictures, posing with their planes before takeoff.
The chalkboard thought has left him, he has a coffee meeting over blueprints to get to. He straightens and walks from the room, head tilted slightly to the side as if perpetually interested in the air in front of him.