Carrot cake on Cardigan Street (a slice of my day)

Her hair is flame red, thrown into a careless and messy bun. In between head and toe are liquorish legs and pale white skin. She wears a white cap-sleeved tshirt, if it were not for the black bra beneath she would be almost doll like. Her skirt is candy-colour striped: blue and yellow. Her shoes are red and her feet are placed on the ground not far from his underneath the small glass top table on which he leans. His peach coloured t-shirt hangs carelessly over his modest frame, denim shorts lay level with his knees but short of his bottom which, in deep blue underpants, rests upon the wooden café seat. They wear white sunglasses to ward off the bright.

A jackhammer sounds as she fingers the clean ash tray on the table exploring its dimension then offhandedly picks up the metal sequin-encrusted container from which sugar sachets spill. Effortlessly two pairs of unfreckled hands collect them and the container is placed back. She moves her attention to the files on her lap embossed with words.

The boy notices, “Did you cut those out… Wow!”

The sound of a truck reversing drowns his voice but not his enthusiasm. She fingers the maroon felt words on her books that spell out each subject appropriate to the object.

“How fun was that?” he shoots.

“I cut the letters out of felt and I stuck them down,” she looks proudly at the characters. Each is the same size and a deep rich colour.

“You cut them out with scissors?” The jack hammer responds before she can.

“Yeah.”

A forklift squeals as they rise and leave.

(Image: Mia Nolting)