There he goes again – down the street – it’s raining. He’s wearing his cut-off denim shorts and a mesh crop top. He’s definitely mid-late 40’s. Sheesh – I wonder what his 60 year old self would think.
As I grab fresh cut flowers from the local corner market – I always see him across the street at a very frou-frou café. It seems as though he thinks he’s Italian. Oh, I forgot to mention – he always wears a light ‘fashion-scarf’ to complete his look. He holds his head quite high and manages to look down his nose at people as he sits on the café patio as people walk by.
I can swear he yells things like “frou frou fa la tee dah”, and “petit peppie la peieu” and other nonsense like that. He does this mid sip as he pretends to read his paper, but instead laughs and yells “frou frou free la la!” – as if he has just told the best joke his commuting audience has ever heard.
When I get home, I put my fresh flowers in water, turn on some uplifting music, close the blinds, pretend I’m a ballerina and prance around my room singing “fa la la, free free and frou frou!”, laughing so hard to myself that I crumple to the floor in a pulsing heap of silly child-like nonsense, thanking Mr. Frou Frou for the inspiration to be silly and not give a fuck who sees me.
where rivers are born 