Phobia

There are three of them. The tallest of the three is seated in a chair with his back to me, the other two are at the counter, giggling and flirting with the attendant. One of them is wearing a black t-shirt with its sleeves rolled. He is short, about my height, but has a proportionate body. His t shirt hugs his curves snugly. He teasingly waves a thousand-rupee note in front of his friend who tries to snatch it out of his hand. The friend is slim and looselimbed but has an air of flabbiness about him. He is wearing a fitted shirt and jeans. He looks like a fat boy who has lost a lot of weight recently (takes one to know one). I can almost see the fat ghost of past hover around him like a pale shadow. Can he see my ghosts too?
They bring a tray of giant glasses to their table. The glasses are topped with whipped cream which they gingerly scoop out with spoons and feed each other. I look away...
It's raining outside and I'm wearing my shorts and a t shirt. My scanty mop of hair is plastered flat by rain and my bulky sandals are wet and ugly. I know I look odd. Not odd in a attractive way but just odd... “At least I am not a preening peacock,” I tell myself...
One more guy has joined them. He is wearing a polo shirt and is carrying a backpack... As soon as he joins them there is a round of hugging and cream feeding... limp-wristed cream feeding... I take sip of my lemon ginger tea, I make sure that my pinky is not up...