the conoisseur of finer things

with his grin tied in a bow and a bowtie made of smiles he waits for the questions that will never come burrowed in the ambiance of private conversations he whistles to his favorite songs to pass the time; sometimes they ask questions, but never the right ones: “excuse me, do you know where I can get some –?” “where’s the nearest –?” all wanting and getting and coming and leaving the line stretches through the revolving doors; they are spinning and people are coming back with bags of things and he listens for the reluctant humming of a happy song but never finds one and he tries to grin at the small boy in the corner holding a balloon but the balloon is not enough and he is crying clawing at his mother’s leg lusting for more – he clears his throat and he begins “might I suggest –?” but he is too late and the surrounding air is a sea of quiet and drowning there is an old couple with silly straw hats on and they are bickering over a choice of bistro he is used to this he smirks and gestures calmly to the other desks and the men who would be happy to help them