He sits on a park bench, peeling an orange. His hands are wiry, veins show through skin, finger nails yellowing.

Pigeons dance around. They pick up small pieces of rind and carry them off; hanging in their beaks. The old man waves at the birds as they take flight. Last of the dinosaurs, he says. Last of the dinosaurs.

Couples walk by holding hands. Some women rest their heads on shoulders of men who have well trimmed hair and wear expensive sweaters. They laugh and sometimes stop to kiss. The old man continues peeling his orange. He notices a seed, shakes his head, and takes a bite. Young couples continue marching by like circus performers. He takes another bite.

Young kids roller blading speed past. They do circles and cruise on one skate; a leg lifted in the air. Girls wearing yoga pants and boys in tights. The old man remembers when he used a key to adjust the skate with its four hard wheels and laces. Technology, he whispers. What will they think of next? He eats another slice.

There is half an orange left. He leaves it on the ground for a bird or rat. Maybe a homeless person will eat it. He stands up and begins to walk away. He kisses his fingertips  and places them on the plaque screwed to the bench. In loving memory to Elsa, the carved sign reads. In loving memory.

The old man adjusts his hat and walks away.