I'm standing on the escalator descending towards St. Patrick station when I notice the suit of the man in front of me -- soft grey, with subtle but distinct pinstripes. He's laden with things; he carries a load of folders under one arm, and like so many businessmen in the city, hoists a hefty black laptop bag over a shoulder.
My eyes travel over his brushcut, and down the pale nape of his neck. I am entirely entranced with the way his jacket strains and slackens across his back every time he moves, when he switches his files to his other arm and pulls open the door to the subway corridor. Thinking he is continuing on, I pause in step and reach out, to catch the door for him once he's struggled through. Standard city protocol, and especially so now, seeing what the number of things he's juggling.
But he doesn't. He turns to me; I see that he wears a pair of glasses, the frames shiny like polished obsidian. His put-togetherness makes me feel a little rough at the edges. I look at him, my arm still hanging in the air, as he stands back. He's holding the door wide open.
He prompts, "Here you go."
An unlikely knight in the most curious shining armour.