He sits on a rusted red park bench beside a pond in the middle of an unfamiliar city and watches the pigeons bicker. He thinks back to the way her voice would break as she was about to cry, and how he spent far too much money dry cleaning the shirts stained by her running mascara. He finds a small corner bakery, buys a small loaf of the finest bread. He catches a glimpse of his reflection in a window, tweed hat casting a shadow over his hardened face, orange beard developing its own personality. His eyes close. When he returns to his bench, the pigeons remain, screaming and squawking. He picks off a piece of bread and throws it between them. He doesn’t think they’ve ever known about the finer things in life.