“Men’s handkerchiefs?” The woman at the gift shop looked at me. “No sorry we’ve only got women’s”

I spent the entire morning at the library, bored out of my mind. After that, I circled around the building and went to a bookshop at the back of the library, and browsed the shelves. The obnoxious music there was hand-picked by staff who gloated in their refined taste. I stood still in front of the Modern Classics section and a young man in a black coat came up to the shelf next to me. He pulled out Infinite Jest and I said:

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

He looked at me and said: “I know who you are.”

“You what?” I looked at him.

He smiled, “I’m Oscar and I’m writing a play. Aren’t you that writer from YouTube?”

That’s the thing with artistic types. They think the world revolves around them. I nodded with a smile and he invited me to see his play. More often than not, university plays are oxymoronic without the oxy. Naturally, I didn’t want to go. I forced a smile and walked away. The conviction was to strangle the next person who’d bring up anything about staging a production. After that, I ended up at a café on the east side of the State Library.

“Sorry… The kitchen’s closed we only serve coffee.” The waiter said.

“Coffee’s fine.” I said, “May I take a seat?”

“Sorry, you’d have to wait here if you want to get your take-away cup…”

“But I want to dine in.” I said.

“Yes, but you’d have to wait here for your coffee.”

After that wit-contest with the waiter, I ended up with a seat and started writing in my notebook. The sun was fair and an overcoat was perfect for the weather. I closed my book after downing the sour cup of coffee and wandered through the streets. Towards noon the weather betrayed me. I started sweating and I thought about grandpa’s handkerchief. He always had one and he wiped his face with it, blew his nose in it, and cleaned any suspicious lumps off of tables with it. Grandpa’s handkerchief was off-limits, at least for me. Borrowing it meant I had to deal with all the surprises packed in it. He died 3 years ago and whenever I sweated like a pig, I could not stop thinking about that handkerchief and how my life would completely transform if I had one in my pocket. I went to a gift store above a bookseller and the woman looked at me like I was a deranged person. “Men’s handkerchiefs? No, we don’t have any. Wait a minute, men’s handkerchiefs?”

I escaped the gift store and entered what looked like a grooming supply store for men. The guy there wore a black apron. The wall was lined with wooden sculptures of animal heads, shelves of whisky bottles, and straight razors next to lotions. Right after I asked if they had men’s handkerchiefs, the guy in the apron ran upstairs without an answer. Maybe the question was so outrageous that the apron man thought abandoning the store was more preferable than dealing with me, but he eventually came back down with a packet of 3 handkerchiefs.

“That’s $40 for the pack. Really good. Sourced from the UK.” I nodded. In my opinion, selling anything in a pack of three was a ridiculous idea unless you were selling socks. I said thanks and walked out. After that, I went to the State Library’s dome and read there for the entire afternoon. At around 6.00 pm the janitor kicked me out and I went home for dinner and planned my early retirement.