Gillian knows it is him. She sees fabric not fashion, image not statement:
navy-blue cotton, worn soft and faded. He is famous for praising
natural material. His age… is 45ish, his hair all silverish, cut No. 3.
He has the face of an eagle not an angel, the tan of high altitude.
He is the assistant, the cleaner, the dogs-body of everything, but
he looks like a melancholic playboy, a backwards-dressed designer.
He has the elegance of… she can't ascertain. Lineage? Or yoga?
Can bones and good posture look more intellectual than the intellectuals?
Yes? he says. You seem somewhat lost. His voice carries on a straight line.
You… you're Fish? Yes, he says, I am Fish.
I'm sorry, no one mentioned your first name.
He pauses. My job doesn't have a first name.