Since he was a small boy, Nigel has dreamed of being a singer, to be more exact, a crooner. He lived in a small apartment with his mother who worked at a health insurance company in the local shopping mall. Most afternoons, after he ran home from school, after he fixed himself a nutella sandwich, Nigel would practice. He would practice being a crooner.
Sneaking into his mother’s closet, he would borrow one of her jackets, and a hat, any old hat would do, but he particularly liked the feel of her cloche hat. As he skidded past the kitchen on his way back to the living room, Nigel would tug the broom from its niche beside the fridge. He was nearly ready, all he needed was the full-length mirror from his mother’s dresser.
Adjusting all his dress-ups, Nigel set up a CD of Sinatra, and another of Bennett. Bliss!