His faded blue jeans were patched one too many times, now an inch shorter after sewing another hem to cover the freyed edges. He didn’t care about the worn dye or mismatched buttons, or even how the white collars turned up their noses when he walked by. He walked as if he knew a secret, that even they had no clue of. No fancy books and high paying classes could touch what he possessed in his pocket. A single handkerchief rolled into a ball, tucked away safely in the depths of his worn denim. He pats his pocket in memory as she clouds his mind. A single kiss she placed in ruby red on the ivory cotton.