The food court is a war zone. People are animals. Guarding their tables from an unknown enemy. Their shopping bags forming makeshift barricades. A chubby toddler lets out an ear-splitting shriek, denied some great injustice. Possibly the wrong toy in her happy meal. A defeated-looking dad hands over an iPad. Peace is restored.
Near the escalator, a pack of teenagers loiters with the distinct energy of people who have nowhere else to be but insist they are choosing to be here. One scrolls endlessly on their phone, another talking loudly on theirs. One tries to trip his friend, glancing around to see if anyone noticed. No one did. He pretends that he doesn't care. He absolutely does.
A middle aged couple stands outside a clothing store, locked in the kind of hushed yet animated argument that a poorly made purchase can inspire. The balding man holds a receipt like it’s evidence in a murder trial. The woman gestures wildly at a shopping bag, bouncing away with each uttered word. It’s either about money or a deeply regrettable fashion faux pas. Hard to say.
Meanwhile, an older woman with a pram weaves through the crowd like she’s come straight from Albert Park, expertly avoiding teenagers, dawdlers, and a man inexplicably standing still in the middle of everything. A worker from a small stand tries to hand out samples, but people avert their eyes like he’s the crypto crazed cousin at the family reunion.
I sip my overpriced juice, unnoticed. Watching. Absorbing. Inventing stories for strangers who will never know they were characters in my little game. My girlfriend returns. I end my call and shift my shopping bag off the seat claimed beside.