I wasn’t sure why I started looking through the jackets. A thick, humid fog already hung stubbornly at face-level and I was sweating through the limited clothes I was wearing. As I checked the size on a spirited pink and black windbreaker, I noticed a pigeon strut through the open front door of the thrift store. It cocked its head from side to side as if looking for a certain aisle. This pigeon had the look of an old soul––a defiant senior searching for the perfect pleat. I pointed to the back of the shop where the slacks hung and it waddled its way past.
You came out from behind the counter and interrupted its passage. A few shoo’s and scrams got it near the door but its desire for functional fashion and pre-worn comfort drove it back in. It wasn’t until you grabbed the vivacious windbreaker from the rack and used it as a second-hand riot shield did the pigeon finally leave. I commented on your valor but was sympathetic towards the pigeon’s humble desire to wear clothes like the rest of us. “We don’t have anything in his size.” You said bluntly.