Writing Prompt

I wasn't quite sure WHAT to call this so I called it what it is - a writing prompt. :)

The artist walked in with a confidence that only those with a quirk and some degree of social ignorance could walk in with.  It was almost as if he didn't know that he was different and that's what made him confident because if he knew he was different, he would most assuredly know that he should be embarrassed by his social awkwardness.  He was dressed as you would imagine he would be dressed.  He had long, dark woolen pants - they were perfect for the New York City winters when the avenues and streets with their tall skyscrapers acted as wind tunnels.  The cold and wet snow and freezing rain would never penetrate those pants.  He was wearing black, wing tipped shoes that had recently been polished. I couldn't tell what kind of socks that he was wearing, but I would have put my money on wool argyle but not the thick wool - wool that was thin enough that they would fit into those fancy shoes of his.  He had on a genuine wool Peacoat and a scarf that made the other people that worked at the gallery wonder as to whether he was as straight as we had all heard that he was.

In his hands, he carried a very large painting. It was nearly impossible for him to carry alone and I wondered at how he managed to carry it to the gallery from wherever it was that he was coming from. It was very well protected - the elements weren't getting to that either - and people were buzzing around it and him without any qualms about showing him that he was "special."