an old man in a beige trench coat sits on a bench idly feeding some pigeons that are waddling around rhythmically in front of his white tennis shoes.
he watches each of them and notices their purple gleam and their vacant, beady eyes.
he smacks his lips a couple times and blinks.
he checks his watch.
it's quarter to 3.
he watches another pigeon and notices to his surprise that the group of them are a lot closer now then before.
he hears a plane in the sky and looks up to see the jet-tail hang lazily and taper as it gets nearer to the plane.
it looks like it's going so slowly from here.
his gaze wanders back down to the pigeons which, he notices, are inches away from his feet now.
he tentatively throws a few more breadcrumbs at them and hits one in the eye by accident.
he utters an almost silent apology to his avian companion, regretting his act slightly since pigeons, he thought, are relatively friendly birds.
a brown-haired lady in a plaid skirt is crying across the street as she packs her furniture into a U-Haul trailer.
Poor woman… he thinks empathetically.
she reminds him of his daughter.
he feels a sudden weight on his knee.
he looks down at the pigeon perched there, looking at him sideways with that birdie face of his.
they stare, locked into each other's gazes for a while until the man breaks the awkward silence.
"yes?"
he feels silly, since he's talking to a pigeon.
"..."
replies the pigeon.
he hears a small flutter and two more pigeons land on his other leg.
his head turns towards them slowly, almost as thought he's afraid to startle them.
they're uglier from this close up.
"i'm not sure I like this proximity."
says the man to the birds.
"..."
say the birds with more urgency than before.
there's another leathery flutter and more pigeons land on his shoulders and tweed hat in a flurry of stained, greasy feathers.
"… no… I don't like this one bit."
the man complains, swatting at the now insistent birds.
"not one bit."
but his voice is now being covered by the flapping of wings.
soon there nothing bud a mirage of purple feathers and blurs around the park bench.
there's a stifled cry -like someone yelling into their pillow after a frustrating day- then nothing.
the din clears and reveals a park bench. on it sits a beige jacket, tweed hat and at the foot, a pair of white tennis shoes.
"..."
say the birds, now settled on the sidewalk again, as though satisfied.

* * *

a small child looks across the street and tugs on his mother's skirt.
"mommy! can we go feed the pigeons?"