She strutted past me tonight, as green leafy things flopped from my fork to the white plate below. Chattering to her girlfriends – their mouths moving over the sound of the radio station being played inside the cavernous fake night – the bank of black swans cruised through their mating rituals in the safety of their treasured habitat: the shopping mall.
Heels strapped to her feet as nails to a rubber band, leather thongs achingly flexing their complaints with each step, she teetered across cobbles shiny with fake Italian rain. Elbows tight into her waist, fingers splayed at the ends of midnight nails, Dolce and Gabbana containing her life in the crook of her right arm, her hair glinted dark-blue in the neon light.
Apricot T-shirt, apricot pants, charcoal cinch waistband broader than her thighs. Starkly, black on orange, the letters FOMO were assaulted by the efforts of her generous chest to escape its confines. The roll of flesh under her breasts broke over her waistband with the delight of a wave crashing on a shore.
Effervescent, streaming abundance in her wake, I couldn’t help muse to my carrot stick: “Who is missing out?”