Frank wore three piece suits because I think that was all he owned. Three piece suits, white dress shirts with french cuffs, and wing tipped brown leather shoes. He was a gentleman, a scholar, and a man about town. He didn't walk as much as he bound from place to place. Walking seemed to be an ungodly waste of time separating him from wherever he needed to be. At six foot six and built like a steardy old tree this always looked like Sandrow was trying to dent the world instead of walking.
Two things in life kept him from practically springing off this planet and into his own orbit: Women and gin. Preferably both at the same time. Around the corner from his 19th century townhouse that he bought with cash was Frank's second home -the beautiful wood paneled bar The Penquin. On almost any night by 9pm you could find Frank standing at the bar drinking his gin fizz and ordering drinks for a woman sitting at the bar.
He'd first make sure to catch their eye across the bar. It wasn't hard of course, he was the tallest man in the bar and the only one dressed in a three piece suit. He'd regal them of stories about joining the rebels in the hills during the war. He'd talk about how he though he was going to be a socialist but decided against it because he didn't like all the meetings. He would wait until just the right moment when after a drink or two the women asks for a light. He'd light her cigarette, watch her take the first hit, exhale, and smile to herself like she knew a secret that no one else did.
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