Reggae music in the sunshine. A quiet bar and memories of lost loves. I sit in the shadows, all but my face. I should feel blue, haunted as I am by regrets of necessary decisions. Nothing can spare you the pain, you know. It is the price you have to pay. So yeah, I should feel blue, but I’m not, not completely anyway.

It is because this old bench, you see. It looks out of place in the sunshine. It’s not just old, it’s ancient, sprinkled as it is with cracks, scratches and stains. What are these holes for?! Several lines of them, one next to the other, like battalions of giant ants.

What were you, old bench? Your wooden surface reminds me of an old boxer’s face, scarred and broken-nosed, but still solid. In the warm afternoon light you seem to be dozing, rocked by the soft murmur of this…