if the suit fits

Bright yellow flowers smiled up at the sky in our apartment's front garden. Content in the sun, perfect as they were. I passed them as I headed away from home.

I saw a crippled man confidently wander by on his crutches as I waited for my bus. He was short, a thick beard covered his face. Dried leaves and dusty earth, rugged and sunburnt, tea from a billy can. A bushman in the middle of the big smoke. There was pride there.

Three kids dressed in black hopped on the bus after me. Guitars and amplifiers naturally hung off of them. Sweet and carefree. No teen angst, no pretention. Airy conversation flowed with status from the two pretty girls as the gangly, pimply faced boy looked on, awkward and accepted. Their beautiful suits of armour fit so well, they almost looked fixed in place.

As I walked home in the afternoon, the bright yellow flowers had curled up to sleep, content in the shade. I felt happy.