It is cocktail hour.Perfume.clouds.of.perfect.people drift. Smooth, tanned skin glows. Teeth flash. Glasses ping! Eyes dart (over shoulders) and shallow laughter tinkles uncertainly.
Opposite the rows of of plump, wicker chairs - a park bench (and a man) - soles worn, hair matted, beard rough. Covered in crumbs. And pigeons. Rumbling laughs. A joy that fills oceans.
On my blue and white cushion, I sink a little, dwarfed. Embarrassed by my bland, sanitised civility.
