Chapter 13
The Bergdorf Goodman men’s store glimmered at 58th Street and Fifth Avenue, all black marble, glass and gold. It was Neal’s habit to stand outside, savoring every moment before he leapt down his own little rabbit hole of glamour. The store’s front windows reminded him of a fantastical gentleman’s dressing room— a hand-carved bench holding one fine leather loafer, a five-foot brass scissors, a tuxedo shirt draped over a sugar cane wood chair backed with ostrich feathers. He had stumbled across the store one Sunday morning two years ago. It was the day after he’d dissolved a cocaine-fueled, six-week fling with Wilhelm (muscled ass, bad skin, angry). He’d wandered in, dazed from a lack of sleep, and was swept away by the store’s beauty and elegance. He never took the elevator, rat
