If I were you I'd forget about the chlorine-fragrant park fountain with the pigeons or doves or whatever birds you've got swooning around us while we coo into each other's eyes, because no one cares about our eyes because they're paying attention to that girl on the bench with the ukulele and the spiral notepad side-eyeing us and digging around her corduroy messenger bag, even though there is nothing in your prose to even hint if she's DTF or SJW or SWF or ISOBSHSUV, although sure she's creepy as shit, watching us and all that with her nonverbal accusations about our middle class lifestyle and first world social awareness that shaves a bit of skin off the problem but doesn't cut nearly to the bone, but it's not like we're the one-percent or anything, so she can take her ukulele and plinky plonk off to the Venice Beach tent city and entertain people who really need a good ukulele cover of that Adele song, but maybe she's up to burn a fatty with us and maybe even stay over but she's deaf mute and lost her pencil and can't figure out how to tell us she thinks we're both attractive in a non-objectifying way, so she's frustrated and "frustrated" at the same time, ya know, and now she's stalked off in her frustration and failed to notice that one guy (who is definitely NOT Hispanic or black or any other minority by the way, but maybe isn't plain white either) who follows her while he's fingering the switchblade in the left pocket of his denim vest, until he catches up with her halfway down a dirty alley between the pizza joint and the Chinese joint, and he touches her elbow, and he very very politely hands her the pencil she dropped the day before, only now it's freshly sharpened (with the aforementioned switchblade) to a point so fine that it could peel their shadows off the greasy concrete.