Evelyn was fiercely independent, unapologetically eccentric, and thoroughly loathed being told what to do. Her absolute favorite daily ritual was occupying her usual park bench, reigning over a swirling, loyal empire of local pigeons.
On this particular afternoon, she had brought a magnificent, freshly baked artisanal loaf of bread specifically for her feathered companions. Pinch by pinch, crumb by crumb, she distributed the feast, watching with pure, unadulterated joy as the birds scrambled eagerly around her orthopedic shoes.
Suddenly, a smug man in his early forties marched over, his face twisted into a mask of righteous indignation. He had been watching her from a distance and apparently could no longer contain his moral superiority.
“Excuse me, lady,” he scoffed, crossing his arms tightly. “Don’t you think it’s incredibly irresponsible to waste perfectly good food on a bunch of pigeons? They can find scraps anywhere. You should be thinking about the millions of people who are literally starving in Africa right now!”
Without missing a beat, the old lady snapped her head up, glared at him with fiery intensity, and barked, “Well, I’d love to help them, young man, but I can’t throw a piece of bread that damn far!”
