“They both smiled at the picture of Albert in his chinos and button-down shirt exhorting kids from atop a bike.”

“He was California from the tips of his port wine loafers to the buttoned and tieless brown and yellow checked shirt inside his rough cream sports jacket.”

“Maybe my ploy had worked. I wore a respectable shirt that buttoned down the front, only - whoops! – I must have forgotten to fasten the button over my cleavage. No respectable girl would wear her shirt open that low. (Cough.)”

“The imperial expression on the woman’s face almost quivered into a smile. “Don’t forget the button in the corner,” she said, pointing to the floor. “That’s an expensive shirt.”

“The shirt seemed heavy until he saw there was another shirt inside it, the sleeves carefully worked down inside Jack’s sleeves. It was his own plaid shirt, lost, he’d thought, long ago in some damn laundry, his dirty shirt, the pocket ripped, buttons missing, stolen by Jack and hidden here inside Jack’s own shirt, the pair like two skins, one inside the other, two in one.”

“He, on the other hand, had the look of royalty, from his angular face and regal posture down to the modern yet tailored fit of his mint colored button down shirt and khaki pants. Not many men could wear pastels and still manage to look like they could hunt down some predatory animal, cook it up for dinner, and then use its hide to make you a purse.”