It's nice

A girl with fushcia hair cut like a lego person sits in silence with a man at a picnic table, both gazing at an indeterminate point in space, hands around mugs like they are the anchors keeping them from floating away. She has lips that make a long, sideways heart when she away from him, which she is, towards the man and woman trying to parallel park in a space six inches bigger than their forest green Corolla, bumping both cars while they jigsaw towards the curb, the woman in the car, the man an aircraft marshall, waving his hands like light sticks, guiding her. My coffee cools. A woman meets her Parisien parents and kid brother on the sidewalk and says she heard the French from down the street. Another couple has arrived and hung their dry cleaning from the umbrella above their table. A beige pant suit beneath plastic billows in breeze. A pregnant woman saunters in, her purple jersey dress so stretched you clearly can see where she was once connected to her own mother, her belly button, pressed out by the fetus inside of her. The girl with red hair forks lettuce in her mouth. Her eyes are amber, murky. Almost the color of her hair, which I see now curls like fat ribbons towards the middle of her face, piercing her cheeks.