At the table next to me two mothers are chatting over lunch about the lack of private schools in this neighbourhood. The one is “frankly shocked” about it. Wherever she had grown up, apparently, there were far more private schools; she says, “it just wasn’t a problem there”. Meanwhile her daughter has begun crying at the pigeon near to their table full of food; she is not, however, shedding any tears. Another daughter, who, according to her mother is “eating too many blueberries,” spits on the pigeon. This goes unnoticed.
A third daughter, clearly belonging to the mother nearest me, gathers away her family’s garbage. Her toe and fingernails match her blue eyes perfectly.
When the youngest girl’s crying grows no longer ignorable, the mothers faintly acknowledge her worry by telling stories about birds. One mother mentions a swarmed picnic once. The crying girl offers her own story about the time at the beach house when she dropped some groceries and a bird got them. The girl appears clearly traumatized. The pigeon wanders around the table.
As the pigeon approaches the middle child, she takes a large swig of chocolate milk so that she can make one ultimate spit onto the pigeon’s back. Organic milk and salvia go flying. This time though, the mother does notice. The girl gets in trouble. Lunch is over.
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