Drenched with gasoline the man sat on the bench eating a carrot. He once said he felt like a scarecrow.
The old woman sitting beside him, wearing a babushka, holding onto the last of her change, started to gag from the fumes. She was formerly a snowman.
Her wrinkles were like riverbeds collecting dead aquatic creatures, a cemetery for a different interpretation of pain.
The man's sage-like beard resembled something like what his father would say. The babushka lady lighted a cigarette.
"You know, I'm covered in fucking gasoline here. Show some goddamned respect."
The aged lady laughed, and said, "I like to play with fire. What can I say?"
The man threw the half-chewed carrot at her cigarette, knocking it down to the concrete.
The old lady laughed like a squeak toy. "You could have set yourself on fire, you haystack."
He crossed his arms like an infant. Pouting. His white and blue striped t-shirt didn't help the matter. After he calmed down, she rubbed his tum-tum. He smiled more.
His receding hairline feeling less limiting. He wanted to look in the mirror and like his own wrinkles, too. She did, too.
On the bench she sparked another cigarette. The man said, there's a reason I'm covered in gasoline.
The old girl said, there's a reason I keep lighting cigarettes.
Smiling more than he ever had he accepted the challenge: burn the gasoline away and she'll put out the fire.