Billowing rain washed the grey plaza. Watercolour shading, fading away into the washed-out hues of an autumn evening. The sky, painted grey-on-white, as liquid torrents poured forth from the heavenly chalice.
A red umbrella, jarring as the explorer in the cloying mist, announced its presence with a silent proclamation of its uniqueness. Red, for passion. Red, for the shades of emotion. A man held this umbrella, sitting on a parka, waiting out the autumn squall. Grey bodies moved in and out of his field of vision. Grey fountain gushing forth monochrome water, merging messily with the torrential wallop of the heavens. Black bird, polished, the ideal of any self-respecting avian, perching atop black marble, stylized man, on a stylized horse of polished obsidian. All on a polished pedestal of white marble, patterned with the glistening rivulets of celestial tears.
Shift, and summer paints the gold leaves green. Blue sky on clear water. Pigeons, flocks of them, strafing the ground of the white plaza, glimmering in the morning sun. Pigeons land near his boots, pecking on everything that can be found. Oh, the unadulterated tastes of pigeons, indiscriminant in the gentle breeze! A paper bag floats lazily around the man's legs, and the light-hearted crinkle of its motion caresses his ears. Music plays softly in the distance, the mellow calling of horns issuing clear tempests in the bracing air. It is the season of birds, and feathered hats perch on the finecombed sculptures of hair sported by the young ladies of the revolutionary temper. They rush past, handbags flopping. High heels tapping repeated crescendos on the cobbled plaza floor.
But the man's eyes do not wander. Merely fixating on one spot, near the parka. A young lady sits there. She smiles, and the world is lit up in summer brilliance. Auburn locks held snug under a fashionable pink cap. Cashmere over furrowed mink. Dainty, delicate leather gloves, oh, the stitching on the long, slender fingers, working on a stray hair! Face powderkits, perched atop those long fingers. Slender appendages holding a brush, as the fine hairs of some poor animal come into contact with that smooth cheek. Movement, swift as the flitting birds, sure as the actions of one long familiar. How, oh how it comes together, the way she sits, crossing her legs in that fashion, kneecap over lower femur, high heeled boots tapping, like a lively metronome, onto the marble kerb. Silvered button over soft fabrics. Eyelash slitting a black cut over green iris. Red lips framing white, even teeth.
He sits there, enamoured.
And he sits now, again, on a grey autumn, on the parka, and watches the grey bodies pass by, without a care on a rainy day.