A storm cloud of bleak desolation settled onto Matheus. Drops of despair soaked into his clothes, filled his shoes. He drowned slowly in an ocean of endless, mind-numbing anguish.
“In the name of all that is good and holy, will you just pick a goddamn tie?” Matheus asked, his head buried in his hands.
“There’s a lot to consider,” said Quin. “Width, color, pattern, construction—”
Matheus raised his head. He slumped one of the padded benches scattered discreetly around the shop. He didn’t even know how a bench behaved discreetly, but everything in the shop gave off the impression of polite murmurs, even the furniture. He looked at Quin with the gaze of one who has seen through the other side of hell.
“Construction?” he asked, cursing the curiosity that prompted the question.
“Checking for loose threads, straight edges, visible or poor stitching,” said Quin, selecting a tie from the display. He rubbed the fabric between his thumb and forefinger. Shaking his head, he returned the tie to the table.