Salut d'amour

"Are you wearing four jackets?" I said to the young man who walked into my office today.
He stuttered and mumbled a bit.
"You're wearing four jackets," I repeated.
He stuttered and mumbled some more, appearing to be confused as to how many layers of clothing he wears in the morning.
I took the very long metal rod which lies behind my desk, and poked the young man. He said ow. I proceeded to attach the hook at the end of the rod to his first jacket, and ripped part of it off. Under it, of course, was another jacket. I did the same to each of the four jackets until I finally reached a shirt, dirty and unwashed.
"Do you wear this shirt every day, without taking it off?" I asked the man.
He hesitantly nodded. I brushed my ponytail.

"Well. What do you want."
"K-k-karla told me to get a job."
"Karla?"
"My w-wife. I mean, m-m-my partner in l-love, that's w-what she calls i-i-it."
"And why do you need a job, person?" I asked as my eyes drifted down to his skinny jeans, where I saw an Animal Collective album poking out from his undone fly. "Ah", I said, before he had a chance to reply.
"A-ah-h?"
My eyes wandered down to his new balance shoes, where his laces were replaced with tiny wayfarers, melted and stretched out.
"Ah" I said again.
My glorious olfactory organ smelt the smell of week old instant coffee, record players, American Apparel, Mexican fedora hats and lookbook dot nu.
"Ahh," I said.

He's muttering and stuttering again. I whack him with my silver cane, which I keep within my tie, and he speaks a coherent sentence.
"K-arla said i-i-if uh, we don't get m-money she can't-t buy her thr-ift shopping."
"So the hipster lifestyle caught up with you, hmm?"
"ALT! THIS J-JOB WOULD BE ALT!"
"Dear boy, I am not offering any jobs."
He then takes off his shirt, revealing a tattoo of Thom Yorke and a terribly filthy chest.
I yawn, as Karla, his "partner in love" comes in. Barry White sings as she opens the door. She screams "KAAAAAARL!", where I duck under my desk at her rich-girl shrillness. I can just feel the walls of my office being contaminated with GUESS and Louis Vuitton germs. Yet, no self respecting hipster wears Louis Vuitton- on her body she wears leggings and a white t-shirt, like a impoverished aerobics instructor. But I know that underneath it all, she's still a rich girl. I can smell it on her.

Golly goose, we got into present tense there for a bit! I feel like Nabokov, except not so Russian.

I leapt out of the window at this point, and apologies to the woman who had her jacket damaged by my fall. I heard Karla yelling out the window, some terribly sad story about her young lover needing a job because otherwise they would not be able to afford the electricity.
"Use candles" I yelled back.