Now she needed to buy a suit. She was a stockbroker, of the junior variety, and that’s what they wore. She knew this because they frequented the Yourmart after work, throwing organic bow tie pasta’s in their plastic green carts and bellowed things like, “diversify your portfolio!” into their tiny little flip phones.

They were meeting at the bar at the Ritz at eight, after her “meeting” and a suit she needed. A snazzy one. After all, he was a successful entrepreneur or whatever.