I have my breakfast daintily, lightly dusting the crumbs from my mustache. Stand upon finely clad legs, and push the chair in. I sigh in contentment and perhaps a hint of arrogance. I walk out the door, grabbing both my hat and cane as I leave. Courteously tip my hat to my neighbor. I always do that.

It’s my morning stroll. Fine feet step softly against the paved road, their sounds drowned in the clatter of a horse and carriage. It’s a busy day. Dozens of similarly clad men clutter on the pavement. Their soles also step softly, generating a gorgeous symphony of gentlemen’s feet as they parade towards their professions.

The ladies are out too.

They hang dreamily out their windows, waving to those they know. Idle gossip drifts from one talkative mouth to the next. Their words go unheard by us on the street of symphonies, but up there, it creates its own music. Its composers are perfectly womanly, creating a sound complimentary to the brisk sonata of the street. One lady catches a glimpse of me and calls down.

I ignore it. Keep walking. Never give them what they want.  My name is called again, the word filled with precious longing. Its tone crinkles in a slightly desperate plea. Turn around. My eyes widen in perfected surprise. Mouth splits to reveal perfect teeth. Lips shift to form words.

“How do you do today, Miss Abigail?”

She makes a response. I nod.

“I’m terribly sorry, Miss Abigail. I have an engagement I must see to. You have my apologies.”

She smiles and tosses her hair in a feminine flourish. I turn around. Rejoin the aria of the avenue, never missing a beat. The ladies have nothing to do, but, then again, the gentlemen don’t either. Neither cluster possesses identity as they languidly live life.

That is why I didn’t bother correcting Miss Abigail when her words fell deaf upon my ears.

Down the street. The crowd thins. My top hat becomes, rather than the height of fashion, an odd accessory, unusual amongst these creatures. Shops, rather than abodes, clutter the sides. One curator catches my curiosity. Hand rests upon the door. Hat is removed. I enter the darkened room.

The man recognizes me. Stammered attempts at my name cloud my hearing. The sounds of the street become muffled. A motion of my hand. The stutter ceases. My smile permeates the semi-darkness. The street’s noise trickles in again.