The falafel place got hopping around seven. All sorts would come. Teens in balaclavas and tweens blasting K-pop. Some had coffees, particularly the matrons who clustered in little groups and read the menu.
At the end of the line, the harlequin stood in a multicolored silk suit, a hedgehog perched on his shoulder.
“Is it all prickly?” A child, barely twelve, looked up at the painted face of the man and the sweet animal on his shoulder.
“Not really.” Harlequin cupped it in his hands.
“Can I hold it?”
The hedgehog was amenable. It sniffed.
“I think it smells hummus.”
Monica's Monday Morning Flash 