I saw him sit down on the damp green grass, and from the smell in the air, the grass was recently mowed. He had a white hat on, matching his white polo T-shirt, tucked inside nicely his khaki pants. He seemed to be suffering, though it was not that hot, just hottest day so far after such a long and miserable winter. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his whole face and neck as if he had just come inside from a pouring rain. But I didn't seem much sweat. It was all psychological.
He was in his fifties, his skin full of wrinkles, but having been in the sun likely quite often, his skill was dark enough to camouflage some of the wrinkles. He stopped wiping for a bit, scratched his forehead a little as he kept his gaze at the children from afar playing around the center of the park.
A sneeze. He was allergic to something. It was still spring, early spring, and the flowers were only slowly starting to reveal themselves. Cherry blossom petals started to flutter around the various corners of the city's neighborhoods. But here, in the center of the city, there were no flowers, and the allergen was some invisible creature brought from afar. He used the same handkerchief to cover his mouth when he sneezed the few times. I wondered if he was going to wipe his face with that same handkerchief, at least fold it.
He sighed, still keeping his eyes on the children from afar. Perhaps one of them was his grandson or nephew. He put the handkerchief back in his left pant pocket, then with a hand on each side of his lap, he propped himself up and walked towards the center where the children were.
