In the last solar year, I cyclically visited the last Macy’s in Denver. Right at the entrance, a mannequin’s whiplash stare lashed me up and down as I strolled around the jeans, collared shirts, and khaki pants. A virgin in my skin and mind, I couldn’t stop hooking my eyeballs onto the mannequin I named Quinn in his three-piece suit snug against that taut plastic
frame.
On the solar equinox, I whipped my credit card free from their wallet imprisonment to purchase Quinn’s glorious three-piece suit to please my fashion ethos. Oh my. As I propelled toward the door, I snatched Quinn from his window display
and scampered out to Denver International Airport. I bought two tickets. Quinn sat beside me in the window seat so he could look out on the Rocky Mountains and the desert names I didn’t bother to remember. In Las Vegas, I hurried with my groom to a wedding chapel where a pastor in a three-piece suit labeled us husband and husband. Quinn glowed in his Macy’s attire like the dry heat sun clicking into a marriage sky’s high noon zenith.