A Museum in the CBD
He sits down on the grey knee-height wall opposite the one I’m sitting on. His sandy blond hair, parted on his left is slicked back, off a kind face. The slicked hair doesn’t disguise the fact that its pretty long. I would’ve thought him pretentious had he not had such a kind face.His aqua eyes don’t match the corporate blue of his shirt, but his tie is fun, the pattern of an Irish kilt, red and green on a black background laying on his striped blue and white shirt. He dusts some crumbs off his tie and he never looks down at his shoes which are in fact brown with blue laces, and although this working attire sounds like a myriad of colours with no focus, it all works together perfectly.
I change places to make room for other students and begin to write about him with my legs crossed yoga style and he comes over and says “You dropped this” and hands me a folded piece of paper I dropped in transit. I scramble a little, embarrassed because I am writing about him, but I can now see his aqua eyes are some of the kindest I have ever seen.
“What are you doing in this place?” I wonder- in this corporate concrete jungle with your kind face,fun tie and sandwich and pasta salad in a brown paper bag. What are you doing here, sitting in front of the museum with your back towards the skyscrapers and your face turned to the sun and the trees?