Night life

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He left an orange on top of the garbage bin. Then another. And another. This old tramp, wandering down the street with a swag on his back and a bag of oranges given to him by the green grocer. He'd been tucking into his bounty with gusto, leaving a trail of discarded orange skins and spat-out pips behind him. Yet for some reason, he placed three oranges on top of the garbage bin, then wandered over to a park bench close by and settled down for the night.

The day was shutting up shop, closing the sunlight to make way for the gentler light of the moon. Office workers hurried past the tramp and the garbage bin, anxious to be home, to eat with loved ones, to shake off the shackles of their corporate lives. No-one stopped to look at either tramp or orange.

Soon the bustle faded and the steps of those who traversed the park were more leisurely. Newly minted lovers, savouring the sweet moments before the wildness of a deeper physical intimacy, sharing the night with their waiting passion. Tired over timers wondering how work had come to rule their lives, wandering home with a paper-bagged bottle of wine to drown their loneliness. Other tramps looking for sanctuary for the night.

It was now that the orange-rich tramp was watchful. No-one was going to steal the precious gift he had left for the fluffies who live above. One old woman, ragged and toothless, lurched toward the citrusy repast, but he yelled at her like a madman, so she slunk away, hungry and confused.

Finally, they came. Three fluffies, tails like brushes, eyes bright and cheeky, pink noses sniffing, snuffling, seeking out the flavoursome treats. Three sets of paws tearing into the three oranges as if life depended on it, sucking, biting, savouring the juices, the sweet, sweet juices.

The tramp watched and laughed, and knew the world was a good place to be.

 Inspired by a prompt from Cynthia Morris in her quarterly Free Write Fling.