bland

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.