The Fourth Man Comments

In front of me, haar like February breathes bellowed from the tightened portholes of three men, sat on a withered bench. They each flicked hardened crumbs from rip ridden bags, on to pigeon dappled stonework. Neither talked to another. They spoke in complete silence.

To my left, a dapper young man with a bulging bag of fresh bread took a seat. He sat silhouetted by the fountain's spray glowing in morning light, where it seemed a mini rainbow encompassed his very being. Shrouded in a prism of fabulous colours, he broke bread with his soft hands.
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