MargenThe tailor on the corner stopped me in the street. An old, elegant man, the tape measure hanging round his neck like a stole.
—Come on Thursday to collect your suit —he said.
—I haven't ordered any suit.
He consulted his notebook, turned a page, and something went cold in his face.
—True. Not you —he apologised—. Forgive me. Working ahead.
I laughed about it with my friends: the crackpot tailor who sews for people who never order anything. One of them stopped laughing. He told me the same tailor had said the same thing to his father, years before. That his father collected the suit that Thursday, just to humour him. That it was perfect: the shoulders, the length, the sleeve. The exact size.
—And? —I asked.
—We buried him in it that Sunday.
Today is Thursday. I've spent the whole day taking detours to avoid the corner. But the doorbell has just rung, and through the peephole you can see a suit bag hanging from the arm of someone waiting with infinite patience.