There must be over 200 people in the room, and we’re existing as clear outliers from the average age.
Colourwise too, we are eggshell. They are somewhere between ‘crispy bacon’ and ‘burnt wurst’- leathery delights. When we walk past some of them on the beach I can imagine their bellies pricked and bursting and sizzling like a sausage.
I’m trying to read my book- something factually interesting but badly written. But Andy wants to talk about the people he’s watching- one man in particular, tall, loud, but thinner than most, wearing suspenders.
He has a giant plate in front of him, filled only with orange pieces, and he’s attacking them with voracity, wrapping his lips around the things and pulling the flesh from the skin like a giraffe divulging acacia leaves from the spines.
It’s fascinating, and we watch quietly for several minutes.
Later, I’m ready to leave, but Andy wants more juice. Wants to follow the Giraffe more like- we see him approach the bufffet and load up another plate of oranges.
“That must be how he got so tall” Andy whispers.
I see a lot of oranges in our future.