Suits Yu was founded by Makara Yu, the only tailor in the state that Keitaro trusted with his wardrobe. He approached the clear glass double doors of the tailor shop and swung the left one open. A bell chimed and the scent of untouched fabric welcomed Keitaro to his home away from home.
Sophisticated black blended with clean white accents to create a refined atmosphere for men interested in Italian luxury or West London elegance. Black linoleum floors carried throughout the shop and floating white shelves displayed accessories. Reflective black walls distributed the vanity lighting well.
On both sides of the store, jackets hung sideways, shirts hung face forward, and pants lay in nice stacks on display tables. Fluorescent white cubes supported mannequins advertising designer suits. The mannequins divided the store: suits of color—nautical blue, white, beige, red, brown—on the left, traditional black suits and tuxedos on the right.
“Kuso.” A short, bald man approached Keitaro with caution. “Keitaro?” his voice gasped in surprise.
Keitaro bowed deeply. “Mr. Makara.”
“What happened to your face?”
Keitaro held up three fingers.
“Ohhhhh. Did they regret it?”
“Mochiron, mochiron.” Of course, of course.
Mr. Makara straightened his spine with a stern nod. “You are off today?”
“Good. Usually your face is so good for business. Now, your face makes people sick.”
Keitaro laughed. “Gamsahabnida,” he spoke in Korean. Then, “Arigato,” remembering Mr. Makara spoke Japanese.