I've been watching you for four months. I want to say that upfront so we can get the discomfort out of the way early.
Every Thursday. 6:47 AM. You walk into Grelch Park from the east entrance carrying a yellow bag. You sit on the third bench, never the second, never the fourth, always the third even when it's wet. You open the bag and you throw exactly, I've counted, exactly forty-three pieces of bread to the pigeons. Not forty-two. Not forty-four. Forty-three. Then you fold the bag three times, put it in your left coat pocket, stand up, and leave through the north exit.
Here's where it gets interesting.
Three weeks ago you threw forty-four. You stopped. You looked at the extra piece on the ground. You looked at it for a long time. Then you picked it up and ate it yourself. Then you left through the SOUTH exit.
I almost called the authorities. Not because of the bread. Because of the exit. In four months you have never used the south exit. Something changed. Something happened between the forty-third and forty-fourth piece of bread and I need to know what it was.
I'm the man in the gray coat on the bench near the water fountain. I've been there every Thursday since February. You've definitely seen me. You've never acknowledged me. That's fine. I respect boundaries. But I also respect patterns and yours just broke and I can't sleep.
I don't want a date. I want an explanation. The date would be fine too, I guess, but mainly the explanation.