Haberdasher

I was 37 years old when I first walked into Hans' Haberdashery shop in the year 1887. On first glance the modest shop look like a stockpile of ruffled shirts and torn coats with non descript stains from god knows where. The owner came out of his back room to come and greet me and my fiance Rebecca. The man, Hans, at least I assumed was a stocky boy whom I wouldn't be surprised running wildly through fields of golden wheat. He spoke in a odd accent that I couldn't quite place but if I had to try I would place it somewhere among the polynesian islands. He fit me into a old tattered wreck of a suit capped with a ancient bow tie that was home to the local flea population. I would return to Hans's shop numerous times in my life, sure the shop was musty and smelled like a unique mixture of death and polyester. But it was never busy and Hans always had the perfect suit for any occasion ranging from my wedding, my kid's graduation and even my death. My son Andrew runs the shop now, holding it to it's less than sub par standard and welcoming the one or two customers that would just so happen to wander in. Hans' is a relic of time long gone by, but it's doors (although it has none) will always be open for any young would be suit buyer or dust enthusiast.