let lemons be angry

Our favourite things: fish and chips with vinegar, too much food, fake grass, a sinking sky and nothing to do for the next few hours. The sun was setting somewhere we couldn't see. Chinese tourists flooded the plain momentarily, taking grandiose photos of each other reclining sultrily on the grass. I closed my eyes a few times but every time I opened them the sky was still bright. Somewhere in the building a master was rapping out a beat for a student who played his piano rapidly. A couple ran down the brick steps screaming at each other. Then it was perfect peace.

You look like your dad but you also look like a moon child, eyes like two plums and happy crescents, cheeks like warm steamed buns, our arms and foreheads and shoulders together an animal skin tent that we can hide in.