Irony

You are elated. You have finally managed to talk to the girl who you think is the prettiest little princess in college. You take her out for coffee to Park Street.
Cafe Coffee Day, Park Street.
Deepbeat music pounds on the smooth walls and the young moneyed sink into soft couches. Conversation touches upon John Mayer and J.U, and coffees topped by cream and chocolate sprinkles lie idle on the lightwood tables, neglected like the glossy cell phones that gleam and blink from time to time.
Then you step out the glass door and a little girl in a frock with the zipper torn out and hair browned by malnutrition tugs at your shirt. She holds out a dirty little hand for a spare one rupee coin, and you who just paid sixty rupees for a sandwich you ate half of, walk away.
All you can think about is her and nothing else.