No common ground

He looked at the young woman who had sat herself down commandingly at the table outside the chic eatery across from the bench where he was sitting eating his sandwiches made with his own fair hands for his lunch. Whilst they were separated by not much more than 25ft by a one way street deserted of all traffic, they might as well have been on opposite sides of the world for all they had in common other than perhaps hunger and thirst at that very moment in time. On her feet little pointy shoes which may have been made by elves in a small German village as a sideline to the silk slippers they usually made. He guessed they were sold with a promise they'd leave you walking on air which wouldn't have been far from the truth as there wasn't much more to them than air in fairness. Her trousers in burgundy, complete with neat crisp folds usually reserved for those in the officer classes regimental wear with large handlebar moustaches or maybe he'd watched too much Blackadder Goes Forth as a child. The bag she had been carrying in the fold of her right arm was Louis Vuitton and probably cost more than his mortgage did for the month and the little LV’s shouted HM’s at him which would have stood for him at least as ‘high maintenance.’ If he was fortunate he'd have been able to keep her grace for about a week before the bank manager would have come knocking with the bailiffs quickly trailing behind. In days gone by her white jacket would have probably come from the fur of several baby seals clubbed to death, maybe it still did. He wouldn't have known the difference between faux fur and the real thing and she could always deny it was real if she had to because who, if anyone other than the maker, the seller and the person who paid the bill would know the difference? Her eyes were covered with the largest hexagonal shaped sunglasses and whilst it wasn't raining it wasn't sunny either. He imagined if they weren't styled so femininely they'd be worn by a heavyweight boxer to cover two black eyes quite effectively. She took out her phone and held it as long as her arm would stretch and presumably took a series of photos to show the world - this is me and I'm sitting looking expensive outside a chic eatery, don't you wish you could be me? He was tempted to do the same to see if she'd notice him but he didn't think the world wanted to see him eating his cheese and pickle doorstops although he could have used the hashtag ‘keepingitreal’ if such things existed. There was, he supposed, a danger that she had a team of heavies on standby who might have taken him out on her wish and command. He took another bite out of his sandwich and nearly choked laughing as she stood up as quickly as she'd arrived and walked off just at the moment a rather bemused looking young gentlemen had stepped out of the establishment presumably ready to take her order. Maybe he was the only one keeping it real after all and he broke off part of his sandwich and threw it at a pigeon who was waiting hopefully by his feet. Maybe he should have offered her the other half? At least one of them was keeping it real and the pigeon seemed to be impressed with him even if no one else in the street did.