The Tailor of Brannan Street

I have a co-worker who owns a sewing machine. He makes a new jacket nightly, like a fairytale tailor. They hardly vary. Sometimes they’re charcoal, occasionally they’re white, but usually they’re black. He moves the seams, plays with the placement of a collar, or tweaks a zipper. He adds headphone holders into the neck, or a pocket for his Leatherman knife. Maybe he adds different closures. Once in a great while, he shocks us with a scarlet jacket.

He stays so true to his vision, like a Broadway actor who finds new insights in a part he plays night after night, or a jazzman riffing on a few sweet notes.

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