Page 118 of Commander’s Mate

Mostly.

After lunch, I discovered another cultural difference.

Zared did not own casual clothes.

Not really.

Uniforms.

Training clothes.

Sleep clothes.

Ceremonial clothing.

Everything had a function.

“You have nothing you wear because you like it?”

He looked confused.

“I like my clothing.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“It covers me.”

“Tragic.”

He crossed his arms.

“You have opinions.”

“I have standards.”

“You currently wear ship trousers, a borrowed shirt, and mismatched socks.”

I looked down.

Damn.

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“I’m displaced.”

“So am I.”

That stopped me.

He said it without self-pity.

Just fact.

We were both wearing borrowed versions of life.

His happened to look more organized.