John anguished all day over the color of his shirt, from the moment he ran into Barkley at the Starbucks on 3rd and the young jackass asked him where he got the pink shirt. Now John knew it was a white shirt, and that there was nothing pink about it at all, that it had just come from the cleaner’s and that he fucking knew white from pink — but nonetheless he spent the whole goddamn day looking in mirrors, stopping in men’s rooms, etc. He even cut off Nancy in the hallway outside the copier and made some mention to the whiteness of his shirt, some stupid thing about how it didn’t look as white as when he bought it. And Nancy just said, “Looks fine to me.” Which for a few minutes decided it for John, until he started thinking that she didn’t actually make any statement at all on the whiteness of the shirt, only that it looked fine, and what if slightly pink was “just fine” to that ignoramus? Fuck, he thought, fuck, I’m going to have to toss this shirt the moment I get home.