Mr P

Mr P was like all respectable gentlemen, dressed in grey from head to toe.

He took pride in his rigid diet, avoiding bread or other unhealthy food. The main idea was to eat lightly. Shape is in the details, after all.

Far from reluctant to join the dating scene, Mr P sometimes cooed at the ladies, but with the utmost respect, particularly when they did not reciprocate.

A no is a no, rules are rules, especially social ones. Unlike those men with shiny shoes and a restless urge to hurry without actually running, Mr P knew how pedestrian lights worked. Simply because he followed this basic rule, those same men looked down on him as on an animal. Sometimes, he even took the bus, under those same silent, judgmental eyes. He never gave them the satisfaction of knowing he cared; he was free to go all around Paris while he wanted and they were stuck on the ground floor of their lives. Mr P knew it was unworthy of a gentleman to shit on the unfortunates below him; but oh, what a relief.

Mr P’s guilty pleasure at the end of the day was to make a detour and fly by the park. There, on her bench, the blue lady was waiting. She had always been in this park. He could remember her from the first day he ventured outside his familial nest. She had been there every day since, through rain or snow. Time had taken a toll on her. Every wrinkle was the trace of a past smile, and she had a joyful life. But those days were long gone, as was her family. Yet, every day, she returned to the bench. And every day, Mr P approached her in silence. He was proud to provide a form of company. Then, when she finally noticed him, she reached into her plastic bag for a piece of delicious whole-grain bread. Mr P knew it was time for his secret indulgence. After all, who cares about the figure of a happy Pigeon, except perhaps an old lady?