Pink

I see her sleeves before I see her. Protruding from her left shoulder. Puffy, pastel pink and proud. They tower over her small and narrow shoulders, which sit uncomfortably in her ill-shaped dress. Ballooning slightly in a sudden breeze, and surviving only thanks to an invisible frame, they flip-flop gayly in delight.


With about as much elegance as an envelope, she awkwardly moves towards me, jabbing her puffiness into the space around her, one shoulder at a time. She comes closer, and I can now clearly see her girlish patchwork attired angular torso, but something bright dazzles me. Her heels: high, white and glossy - they shine more than the grinners in a dentist commercial.


She's followed by her masculine counterpart. An elderly pastel-skinned gentleman, with faux-black-coloured strands of hair neatly trimmed half way down his short neck, slicked anti-clockwise over his skull. 


She smiles at him and motions him to sit down next to her on the bench. And he does. Obstructing my view of her puffy, pastel pink, proud sleeves.