You can decipher a person’s intentions just by what he’s wearing.
Even how he’s feeling. Desperation. Anger. Hostility.
A tattered up jacket illuminating bright green from the alleyway dumpster.
Pants three sizes too large hanging on for dear life by the waistband.
What’s left of a brown leather belt now resembled pieces of half eaten beef jerky.
Grey wooly gloves that surely would’ve been sold for half price clenched a piece of silver death.
His shoes gave it away. Either that, or the way he said, ‘give me your fucking money’ before bolting into the pitch black shroud of night.
