I walk through the Burberry store wearing jeans and a tee, and a cable travels from my backpack to my headphones turned all the way up.
Heads turn. “This isn’t right, this isn’t how it’s supposed to be,” say the sharp stares of the fine patrons of the boutique. “We came here to get away from that.”
I don’t know why I’m here. My dad loves this stuff, the $600 scarves, and smell of old money and arrogance. Who here is happy besides me? I don’t understand it; I feel like I’m in a museum of the rich and confused.