“You want to eat you go to Chicken Cottage”
The man outside barks. It’s cash only, and an attempt is made to beg Brits for a couple pounds.
Luckily there's another, quieter Chicken Cottage, with nobody in it, and this one accepts cards. The fries taste like old grease. The nuggets are the nuggest - held delicately between thumb and fore.
“Let’s find somewhere we can sit outside and eat this.”
The park entrance is at the dead end of a lane in South London.
Tip the water bottle for a swig, pinky stuck in the air.
“We’re in London.”
“Can I put my arm around you?”
The flat smells like moth balls. The second thing is the furniture - tasteful and warm. A large window covered by thick venetian slats. Beside it, the olive green chair: a curved danish number, elegant in its size, and with four polished wooden legs in a splay. It is overhung by a two-orb cantilever lamp in rosy metallic.
The ceiling fixture is an open ended cylinder: aurburn in extérieur, reflective copper within. A single Edison bulb within emits a scientific orange glow.
Four eyes examine the dresser - rich wood bisected artistically by veins of inlayed brass, whose thoughtful arrangement is uninterrupted by the breaks between drawers.
The bedspread is a warm white decorated lightly by black embroidery - a band of lace forming a square that speaks of nuzzley sweet interiority.
Two cross-legged people face one another.
“What would that look like?”
“That would be nice.”
A morning glance between the venetians affords vistas of lush spring foliage and a futuristic peek of London’s iconic “Shard” as cobalt surrenders to dayblue.