They used to like her. Now they just humor her. It's painful to see.
She looks like a ball of satin. Her puffy clothes have a pink sheen.
A stroller abandoned beside the statue of a warrior, its swords upraised.
We're clumped around tables on the second floor, the room warm, the liquor poured liberally, one girl dressed as a pirate blurting, "Arrgh, arrr!" to muffled laughter.
Pine needles look like cascades of silver-green water.
On a cramped balcony they've lined up clay pots painted light blue, lavender, and ochre. An outdoor garden where nothing grows yet. It's all prettiness and possibility.
They announce his single status to the room. When he blushes and lowers his eyes, they laugh.