I'm sitting in Fortnum and Mason's for lunch, just to indulge myself.
An exclusive restaurant, beauty, old wood, velvet upholstery - the waiters and waitresses a ballet, eager to serve.
The food was absolutely delicious, fresh - a delight. Every plate is a work of art.
I was surrounded by happy people.
Ladies after shopping - mountains of shopping bags next to them, expensive - talking animatedly about fall/winter fashion. What is "in", what is "out"?
Opposite - a high-paid business manager, his tailor-made suit, his handmade leather shoes, his silk scarf, his signet ring, even his splayed finger - the finest.
5 young men around him - all saying "yes" and nodding - only one of them dares to leave, to eat vegetarian food, to drink red wine instead of champagne.
Diagonally opposite - a long-established Indian family - the "Pater Familias" speaks, everyone else is quiet - eloquent silence. The women are beautiful, adorned - the colors of India.
Quiet clinking of glasses and cutlery...
And then - a different "scent" in the room:
The Polish waitress - her fluent English slightly accented. A scar on her face, a "harelip" - a relieving break from the "perfect" ambience.
Her face is real, impressive in its vulnerability.
Her thick braid is a feast for the eyes, her smile real, true.
Her movements - soft, fast, light and clear.
Pure bright joy.
After leaving the pub "Outside the door" (I'm thinking of Wolfgang Borchert and his post-war drama) a beggar - under him a cardboard box, next to him a dog - both warming each other in the cold.
The hand - gray, fingerless glove, wool, worn, the fingers red, black-dirty nails - cost the trembling animal.
His face - dignity.
What counts without being measurable, even measured?
Everything is one.
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