M:          I just wanted to come over and congratulate you on your endorsement.

H:           ?

M:          I say, I just wanted to come over and acknowledge your virulence, expertise and/or over all moxie.

H:           ??

M:          I mean, it absolutely shows, your better-than-thou demeanor has most assuredly  realized tangible dividends for you.

H:           ?…?

M:          What’s that you say?  These clothes weren’t given to you under some contractual pretenses outlying the frequency in which  you must wear them?  No matter.  There’s something intoxicating about this whole scenario.  I want to emulate you.  I want to be you, think you.  I can only hope that it’s as easy as it seems. To don the ubiquitous uniform of the chosen, and therefore be chosen.  I wonder if my Puma sneaks,  Adidas athletic trousers, Puma t-shirt with the arms cut off will hang as well from my frame as they do yours.  Is it this that the companies want to accomplish in having their swag so represented by you and your kind?  I haven’t seen any evidence of what else it would be.  The screen on your properly propped iPad has not left the homepage since I began observing you.  You’ve made calls on the duly connected iPhone but as far as I can tell have only left messages.  No one has answered your calls, most likely cause they don’t know you’re in uniform.  Yes I understand this isn’t the only uniform that exists; there are others for other tribes.  Right now I’m looking at you.  Do you know what it is you do?  Did you make the choice for the performance and feel at your local hunting ground gym; or is this to emulate others?  I expect that latter.  The irony is that since you have so chosen to expose your physique it is easy to see the lack of tone or  regime.  Is that why you keep your sunglasses on?  I can’t imagine the coffee shop’s luminescence is that blinding.   It’s not for me, I can see more clearly than most would wish.  I see the truth in your masquerade.  The faux leather bound organizer with the unmarked appointment calendar.  The constant trips  to the lavatory… how is it that you keep returning so quickly?  You can’t constantly be checking your hair, there’s not enough there for the Starbuck’s generated cyclone to muss.  Is it that your triple espresso shot has done its work too quickly?  Do I detect you blinking behind those cloudy-day sunglasses?  Do the questions make you nervous?  Hey!  Focus on me, not the young girl whose leopard print shirt matches her lap-top’s carrying case.  What the fuck?  Where am I?  I gotta get the fuck out of here.

H:     …