I am jogging at Bandstand. The sea looks gorgeous, making it a sunshine-y & fantastic-y kinda morning.
Early risers add to scenery. Middle-aged men walk with a purpose. Joggers jog with their tracking apps, in earnest. Couples laugh and hold hands. Seniors practice their yoga in their specified area.
I pass cyclists all helmeted and kitted, cycling slowly. There are the pic-gramers, busy clicking insta-worthy pics and worrying if they will be like-worthy. Assorted exercise enthusiasts, horny housewives, young yoga-ists, kids kidding, smiling samaritans stretch all across the sea-laced promenade. A glorious morning with glorious people indeed.
The burqa-covered body sleeps on the bench.
The body is wrapped head to toe in a burqa. Don’t know if the body is he, she or it. It is huddled on the bench, lying sideways, elbows for a pillow with knees tucked in. The bench faces the sea with nothing in between. The burqa doesn’t stir, it just lies there, still.
The sea knows it all, but it isn’t telling. And we glorious people continue without so much as a pause. I walk by fast to unsee the burqa-covered body on the bench at Bandstand.