observer

my nostrils are sensing a thread of a rotting compost mixed with cigarette butts and dripped out beer. i am sitting on the street in the outdoor section of a prominent restaurant. my drink is a delightful mix of fresh grapefruit, rose, elderflowers and liqueur. inside, a band is playing a blend of reggae, jazz and soft rock. i am no longer anxious. i am an observer. the stroll of worn out children wearing washed off organic cotton labels carrying light sabers or riding scooters does not seem to pause. the children are followed by dads of the same dress code and demeanor. droplets of sweat are sparking on arms and faces of everyone. i can’t spot makeup on any female despite my suspicion they do have it on. there are people with dogs, all so well groomed. i was here once before, many years ago. the memory does not feel neither painful nor sentimental. i’m glad i am here.