“Ugh. Sales on the line are down again.” Renauld shook his head and sighed heavily as he flipped his laptop shut.

“What was that, honey bear?” came the usual muffled response from the kitchen. Mark was a good man, but bless his Ohio heart, he never could leave well enough alone.

“Oh, they sent me the reports for the third quarter. I really thought this was going to be it.” Renauld looked down at his loose, mis-matched sleeves. “Honestly, asymmetry was supposed to be all the rage this year.”

“I saw somebody wearing your clothes down at the dry cleaner today; obviously somebody is still buying them.”

“But it was supposed to finally break the cycle!” Renauld pouted as he pushed himself away from his desk, the chair grating against the hardwood floor of the condo as he rose from his chair and walked over to the window to stare down at the street.

“Well, Rome wasn’t built in a day, sugar spot.”

Renauld sighed as he clenched his hands into fists and pounded them against the window.

“Are you leaving smudges on my windows again?”

“No,” Renauld lied as he leaned his forehead against the transparent polymer. He knew it was better at trapping heat, and no one could accuse him of not doing his part to stop global warming, but sometimes, he missed the cold feeling of real glass. It just wasn’t the same.

“Well, don’t. I just washed them today.” Footsteps announced that Mark had given up on dinner and walked into the study, but Renauld didn’t turn his head. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

Renauld’s eyes fell to the busy street five stories below, eyes following the pedestrians as they walked down the sidewalks, glasses glowing with flickered conversation, a thousand people having conversations, and not one with the person beside them. “You remember that show we went to the other day?”

“With that designer from Paris? Of course I remember. He was real nice.”

Renauld ground his teeth. “But did you see what Fredrick was wearing?”

Silence for a moment; Mark always did that. “I can’t say I was paying much attention to him, jelly bean. Did he have a new line?”

“If you count a tee-shirt and shorts as a ‘new line’.” Renauld slumped against the window, his shoulders falling. “Is it really so much to ask that you dress up for a fashion show.”

“Oh, honey. You know how it is with people these days. You’re lucky if they shave one day in three.” Mark’s manicured hand found its way around Renauld’s shoulder as he stood next to his husband, pulling him against his chest. “Honestly, if I didn’t marry you, I’d probably be the same way.”

“It isn’t fair! People used to believe in fashion. Used to change style. What happened?” Reunald closed his eyes as he buried his face in Mark’s shirt.

“Well, the eighties was a long time ago now. People are just comfortable these days, with our smart glasses and HUDdies—”

“And t-shirts and shorts! They wear denim! Every day! Khakis if they’re feeling really fancy.” Renauld pulled way from his husband, walking along the window, one hand sliding along the plasticy surface.

Mark tsked. “See? You’re leaving a smudge.”

“I don’t care.” Renauld turned back towards the window, staring down at all the people walking down the street in their t-shirts and polos and khakis and jeans. A thousand different designs, a thousand different slogans, but not one ounce of fashion between them.

Mark sighed and followed his husband, resting his hand between Renauld’s shoulders. “You know the real reason why. Nobody wants to try anymore these days.”

“Beau Brummell can go die in a fire for all I care. It isn’t wrong to want to look fancy.” Renauld didn’t bother to try and hide his tears.

“I know.” Mark sighed. “But ever since the Internet, people just got comfortable.”

“That was fifty years ago! Our whole lives, Mark! And most of my dad’s life, too.”

“Well, having seen those old movies, at least nobody is missing their hair.”

Renauld laughed weakly. “There’s that, at least.” He rubbed at his face with the back of his hand. “Why can’t people try.”

“Because they’re all too busy browsing the Internet. They don’t even see each other these days.”

“True.” Renauld turned and leaned into Mark’s chest, hands sliding to his shoulders. “Mark?”

“Yes, caramel corn?”

Renauld’s fingers clenched on cotton fabric. “Why are you wearing a t-shirt?”