The ethereal scene before me is almost unreal. The type of scene you only really see in movies.

I’m sat in the town plaza where the mid-Spring sun sheds its rays generously. The air is warm, and hovers placidly in the light atmosphere like friendly ghosts. Two tall buildings stand parallel to each other on either side of the square plaza. To the back, a swanky cafe stands adjacent to a medium-sized restaurant & bar, equal in opulence, and both with outside seating areas. Across from them, an open road which splits into two roads: one leading to the main town centre, and the other to the train station.

In the middle of these four sides of the plaza, there is about 40×40 square-feet of space. There are three benches on each side surrounding a grassy plateau of which is central to the plaza. Clumps of families, friends, colleagues, and individuals are scattered about the square. There are some folk reading silently on this blissful Saturday afternoon; some chit-chat on benches and at the cafe and restaurant over beverages and small meals, some parents let their kids run and play in the grass while they park prams and luggage in the shade, and others scroll through their phones or smoke as the sun beams overhead.

I’m sat on a bench, book rested on lap. A half-smoked cigarette lolls between my fingers. I almost feel bad smoking it in front of the young children who play a few feet in front of me. A boy and a girl. The girl looks one or two years older than the boy. She blows bubbles with her toy, and her brother (I presume it’s her brother, anyway) gleefully chases after them, trying to pop them as they both laugh.

To the bench on my left sits a young man. Maybe mid-twenties. His attire, a clean, sharp three-piece suit. Grey. Sleek brown smart shoes encase his feet. He must work in one of these buildings, I think to myself. The two buildings encompass offices. The contemporary-style buildings are not merely remarkable in size, but are exceedingly dapper and upscale. Those offices had to be used to carry out important jobs, by important-looking people like the gentleman on the bench beside the one I’m on, I think, but don’t say.

He stares into a single slab of the granite tiles which lined around the plaza to act as a pathway, creating a foot-or-so distance between the benches and the adeptly trimmed grass. His gaze eases not as he chews slow and hard over his Subway sandwich. He is bent forward slightly with his elbows pressed against his knees. The young man appears to be lost in deep thought, as though trying to remember an intensely important detail he ought to have not let slip his mind. (Take, for instance, the exact date of his very soon approaching anniversary).

A gentle breeze parades about the setting briefly, then subsides. I look to my right as I dab out the remains of my cigarette. A woman strolls tardily passed me towards the cafe and restaurant area. She has a black leather briefcase in her right hand. Navy cotton skirt which suspends down to her shins, matching blazer, plain white shirt beneath with two buttons undone. Simple flats. She has her brown hair tied up in a ponytail. Her facial features are strong, and she has narrow eyes.

At first she appears plumpish, but I soon realise she’s pregnant (by at least 4-5 months). Her posture by no means shows signs of fatigue. Although slow, she moves steadily and with a certain confidence. It probably isn’t her first time being pregnant, I think to myself. But of course this is a very loose proposition to make from merely observing the way she walks. She’s greeted by a man outside the restaurant & bar who pecks her on the lips, then pulls out the seat opposite his for her to sit.


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