A bottom in Paris.

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A table on the cafe terrace with two chairs and a bottom placed on just one of those chairs. That bottom might be mine; I’d have to take a closer look though to make sure that it’s mine - there’s been rumours of a bottom impersonator skulking about town. Above me (if it’s really me) the sagging canopy, bellied with collected rain water that fell when the clouds relaxed a light shrug of rain onto the dusty city to perk it up. Across the wetted road behind railings and a hedge there’s a park. Umbrellas can be seen above the high hedge wandering this way and that, the people under them hidden by the hedge. Or maybe they are just floating there to confuse me, with no-one holding them up, giving an impression of a crowd of people when in reality the park is devoid of people. Umbrellas can be so deceptive. Malevolent too, since if they are not properly controlled they could gouge out a boy’s eye. But so long as it’s my bottom sitting on the chair beneath me (and the jury is still undecided) I’ll just sit and enjoy the rain falling on the canopy above and hope that it doesn’t rip open under the weight of the water collected.