Your benefactor is smaller than you’d imagine, wiry, still in the disturbing way people with this kind of background often are. They favor a restricted palette: in the mornings, drinking tea, working out, a black cotton t-shirt and black hemp drawstring pants save that when you get up close you see they’re not exactly drawstring, they’re momohiki, with an upper block you kind of have to assemble for yourself every time you put them on, and having once tried them on you’re amazed, watching the casual way they ties the tapes, without even thinking about it. For later in the day, working hours, or socializing, relaxing, they favor black linen, a shirt with a stand collar and a hidden placket and a straight hem, cut to fit their surprisingly narrow build, and below that a skirt with a cleverly hidden structured upper block that you only become aware of when they slip their hands into the pockets along the seams, hooking the thumbs out over the tops as if they were wearing trousers. At one point they lent you their flat for a couple nights so you got to see their wardrobe, a garment rack on wheels with clothes hanging from hangers, two identical skirts, two identical shirts, a pair of momohiki, a couple t-shirts, a spare pair of boxer shorts. They seem to own no socks, nor much in the way of ornament. They keep their hair cropped close, shaving the scalp every three or four days with the same safety razor they use for the face.
Your benefactor drinks tea and takes care with it.