He sits in the sunny city-centre park on his lunch hour, the first brisk day of the year when the weather is fine enough to do so, and he considers what might happen.  
           He shares his bench with an elderly, possibly stuffy lady.  She’s turned away from him at an odd angle, and has been since he he sat down.  As if she knew that she wouldn’t want to share any kind of personal space with anyone who would dare sit on the bench with her.  They haven’t looked at each other or shown any indication of mutual acknowledgement.
           Cars steadily hum past in the middle distance.  An intrusive, hypnotic alarm of a nearby office block screams to itself.  Professional looking groups of twos and threes flit through the park, most talking about work. 
          What might happen? he considers, lazily casting his eyes down over the words in a book, interpreting their meaning only here and there.  He's gnawing persistently at an apple core.  There isn't much fruit left but he's using his front teeth to slice off the remaining peaks of fruit.  
           Across the path, a few feet away is another bench, where a suit sits on his own.  This man stretches up then leans forward, rubbing his face expressively, hoping people are watching him? - seeing how stressed he is? - how important he must be?  
          

He takes the apple core from his mouth, glances at the lady next to him, considers what might happen, considers the rubbish bin next to the suit.  It’s a bin of the closed-top variety, with windows on the side.  It would take a powerful throw and no small level of accuracy to propel the apple core into the window of the bin.  It’s a game he often plays with himself as he walks past certain bins, (only with apple-cores so he can’t be accused of littering).  His success rate is around one in fifty.  It’s worth looking foolish and slightly silly forty-nine times in order to look cool once, he reasons.  The delightful goal, the satisfaction, small fist of jubilation to self, half-smile shared with a passing stranger, on the smug pretence that he’s successful every time.  Or they might just think him an idiot, but whatever.  This has happened twice ever.  Once six-months ago and once around eighteen months before that.  He was the only witness to the first, yet still derived pleasure from it.  It had still felt sweet.  But what’s the point in looking cool, he thinks, if nobody’s there to see it?  There’s a tree-felling analogy, he can’t remember...
           

He could go for the throw, risk looking foolish, risk hitting the suit on the bench if the throw is wayward, risk a snort of derision and further disdain from the old lady for the unnecessary sudden action. 
          He still hasn’t discounted the option, he’s feeling confident.  He doesn’t much care what the lady thinks.  He visualises the apple core flying through the window bit, rattling in, his own nonchalance: he’d look straight back down at his book.  Or not.  Maybe he’d enjoy a quick glance, flicker with a fleeting gentle pride that could be read as arrogance. 
         The risks outweigh it. 
         He picks at some more words from his book. 
         The suit, he could easily hit him by accident.  That could cause quite a scene if he's tired, tense and stressed anyway.  He might start a fight!  How ludicrous would that be?  - His mind runs away.  The words in his book aren’t doing much for him.
 
Then action: the suit moves as if to leave, answers his mobile phone, loudly, stands, declares in mockney to someone that he’s ‘strollin back naah,’ and strolls back. 
          The apple core still there, making his fingertips sticky, he feels a surge of apprehension.  Can he do it?  Will he try?  The suit passes in front of his bench as a young couple pass walking the other way, momentarily obscuring his view of the bin - he doesn't have a clear shot.  He needs a clear radius of at least ten feet around the bin before he can feel comfortable despatching a shot.          
          The couple sit down at the bench next to the bin.  No!  He growls inside at their inconsideration, frowns, limply tosses the apple core onto the lawn behind him then wipes his fingers on his trousers.  A gutsy seagull instantly skips over, takes a hold of the core in its beak and flies off.  He wonders how long the seagull had been eyeing it up and if its beak gets sticky.