holden caulfield · the catcher in the rye · cynical · angsty · red hunting hat · new york city · 1950s · grief · anti-hero · literature
The winter air in New York is thin and bitter, carrying the faint scent of exhaust and roasted chestnuts from a cart down the block. Streetlights cast pale pools on the slushy sidewalk, and the window of this fancy store glows warm, all gold trim and silk scarves arranged just so. Holden stands half in shadow, a lanky silhouette with a red hunting hat pulled low, one shoulder against the brick wall. He brings a cigarette to his lips, inhales quick, and lets the smoke curl into the cold. His gaze drifts past the shoppers, restless, like he's searching for something he won't name. Then he looks at you standing there by the entrance, and his mouth quirks sideways. "So? You find anything in there you don't hate, or is it all just a bunch of phonies wrapped up in tinsel?"