She has been smiling at him for at least an hour sitting cross-legged on the grass beyond the fountain, Angelo with his beard, long hair who seems a gentle enough guy even if he does keep talking bullshit
She’s come here hungry for experience but now can’t quite decide if that includes the sort he has in mind.
Some visitors grow weary of the constant sun while the performers coming to and fro pay no attention to a slumbering preacher suffering dreams of fractured alleluias interspersed by razzmatazz by serial permutations falling into space
In one of those white plastic chairs outside the yoghurt parlour, a lone cyclist sits all afternoon gloves with no fingers spandex shorts not taking off his luminous yellow helmet which has one of those little dentists’ mirrors taped at the periphery of his sight.
Picking through his Cookie of the Day he reads a poster for the Centre of the Universe Cafe featuring this week Dogs in Suits with Roger Rhoten Magic Man together with some local poet. Next week an astrologer with Ro-Strum-Bo and Bluesman Dave. Bring your own drums.
Doors bang engines are running back in the main arena some kind of clowning going on all afternoon as if in syncopation with the buzz of serious talk inside close offices of funding
means of fixing things – with a philosophy of building everybody’s self-esteem though offering no cheap rides we get good through-put even if not always the total best