The Mockingbird
Prose by Patrick M. Hare
Every night for a week, Louis had dreamed about a mockingbird. He recognized it from the bright white bars on its wings, visible in flight, into which it launched itself after seeming ready to chirp at him. It never did, though. It would look at him, cock its head and twitch a wing, open its beak slightly, then throw itself into the air. There the dream ended. From his dream almanac, he knew mockingbirds were ominous figures, signifying deceit. From his graduate school labmate, who had been unable to get to his garage for a week without being assaulted, Louis knew that in the waking world, mockingbirds were fiercely territorial and would attack anyone who trespassed on their territory. He was inclined to believe the latter was behind the dread he felt during the dream, in which he turned the corner of his block, and the bird would be sitting on the sidewalk in front of him. He would stutter to a stop while the bird hopped zigzags across the sidewalk towards him. Each night, it got a bit closer. He craned his neck back to follow its flight into the grey sky over the brick building, setting off a bout of vertigo that crashed into wakefulness.
He assumed there would be some momentous occurrence on the day the bird finally chirped, something threatening, perhaps, if veiled from his conscious understanding. But try as he might, he couldn’t find anything of import that happened on the day the bird in his dream opened its beak and reproduced the ringtone of his 2004 Razr flip phone, a sound he didn’t know he remembered. It was a jaunty tune, overly long and saccharine to his ears now. Specifically, it was the ringtone he had assigned to his college girlfriend, who had dumped him for a pre-law student two years his junior a week after their third anniversary. He hadn’t seen her in ten years and probably not thought of her in half that time. Weirdly, although they had traveled in the same circles, he didn’t recall seeing her on social media at all. Perhaps she wasn’t a sharer.
After that night, the mockingbird dreams stopped. Or, perhaps they didn’t, only he couldn’t remember them on waking. For the first time in his adult life, he didn’t remember any of his dreams; he was a meticulous dream logger and typically remembered two to five per night. Possibly, that was the momentous occurrence, but it didn’t involve lying or falsity or dissembling. Still, it unnerved him to wake, turn the light on, reach for his dream journal and stare at the entry about the mockingbird singing his ex-girlfriend’s ringtone with nothing but darkness between the previous night and that moment.
Within a month, he tracked her down.
He was lucky to have caught her. She traveled a lot for work these days. Their meeting at the trendy independent coffee shop was as awkward as he’d feared; having parted badly, the question of whether and to what extent to address the breakup loomed over the conversation. He resolved to ignore it, asking about her life since college, downplaying his successes in real estate and bar trivia, which had been only a burgeoning hobby when they broke up.
From countless YouTube videos on how to succeed with people and interpersonal relationships, he knew he should be leaning slightly forward to signal interest, but when he did so, all he could focus on was his gut pooching over his belt. He knew he didn’t have a particularly large gut, and eight months at the gym had shrunk it from its previous bar-trivia-inflated size, but he could still feel it, like something alien pressing into his true, svelte torso. He tried sitting up straight, which was even worse, twisting the reunion into something far more formal.
“So. Why should we give you your old position back? What have you been doing since then that warrants a reevaluation?” she asked, settling back in her chair and tenting her fingers.
“In the past ten years, I’ve taken on increasing responsibilities in relationship management.” That was a lie. In the last three years, he’d gone on precisely four dates, all with different women, three of whom had ghosted him. The fourth he ghosted. “I’ve been impressed with what I’ve seen since I left, and I think I could bring valuable skills to the table.” This was also a lie, of course. He knew nothing of what she’d been up to since they broke up. She knew it, too, as they had just been talking about the long gap.
“And tell me why you left the position, Louis?” she asked, having produced a pen and notepad from the ether during his last answer.
He felt a line of sweat appear at his hairline and trace its way down his neck. “Well, um, I was let go.”
“Indeed? Could you tell me why? In your own words. Take your time.”
He assumed there would be some momentous occurrence on the day the bird finally chirped, something threatening, perhaps, if veiled from his conscious understanding. But try as he might, he couldn’t find anything of import that happened on the day the bird in his dream opened its beak and reproduced the ringtone of his 2004 Razr flip phone, a sound he didn’t know he remembered. It was a jaunty tune, overly long and saccharine to his ears now. Specifically, it was the ringtone he had assigned to his college girlfriend, who had dumped him for a pre-law student two years his junior a week after their third anniversary. He hadn’t seen her in ten years and probably not thought of her in half that time. Weirdly, although they had traveled in the same circles, he didn’t recall seeing her on social media at all. Perhaps she wasn’t a sharer.
After that night, the mockingbird dreams stopped. Or, perhaps they didn’t, only he couldn’t remember them on waking. For the first time in his adult life, he didn’t remember any of his dreams; he was a meticulous dream logger and typically remembered two to five per night. Possibly, that was the momentous occurrence, but it didn’t involve lying or falsity or dissembling. Still, it unnerved him to wake, turn the light on, reach for his dream journal and stare at the entry about the mockingbird singing his ex-girlfriend’s ringtone with nothing but darkness between the previous night and that moment.
Within a month, he tracked her down.
He was lucky to have caught her. She traveled a lot for work these days. Their meeting at the trendy independent coffee shop was as awkward as he’d feared; having parted badly, the question of whether and to what extent to address the breakup loomed over the conversation. He resolved to ignore it, asking about her life since college, downplaying his successes in real estate and bar trivia, which had been only a burgeoning hobby when they broke up.
From countless YouTube videos on how to succeed with people and interpersonal relationships, he knew he should be leaning slightly forward to signal interest, but when he did so, all he could focus on was his gut pooching over his belt. He knew he didn’t have a particularly large gut, and eight months at the gym had shrunk it from its previous bar-trivia-inflated size, but he could still feel it, like something alien pressing into his true, svelte torso. He tried sitting up straight, which was even worse, twisting the reunion into something far more formal.
“So. Why should we give you your old position back? What have you been doing since then that warrants a reevaluation?” she asked, settling back in her chair and tenting her fingers.
“In the past ten years, I’ve taken on increasing responsibilities in relationship management.” That was a lie. In the last three years, he’d gone on precisely four dates, all with different women, three of whom had ghosted him. The fourth he ghosted. “I’ve been impressed with what I’ve seen since I left, and I think I could bring valuable skills to the table.” This was also a lie, of course. He knew nothing of what she’d been up to since they broke up. She knew it, too, as they had just been talking about the long gap.
“And tell me why you left the position, Louis?” she asked, having produced a pen and notepad from the ether during his last answer.
He felt a line of sweat appear at his hairline and trace its way down his neck. “Well, um, I was let go.”
“Indeed? Could you tell me why? In your own words. Take your time.”
--
He was lucky to catch her before she left for the ultra-triathlon in Morocco. He felt tense, probably sounded more so, his voice compressed by the effort of sucking in his gut constantly. Her daughter and husband would be coming along to watch for the first time, and they were hoping to stop off in Spain on the way home. What about him? Any kids? Unbidden, the thought of joining her tanned muscular form and her presumably equally buff husband on red sand under a deep, star-filled night filled his head. He started perspiring, then, needing to do something, gulped his cappuccino and burned his mouth.
“No,” he managed, after his sputtering died out. “No family.”
“Oh,” she replied, disappointed. “You and Emily made such a great couple.” Emily was his high school girlfriend, a year behind him. She had followed him to college.
“Sorry? We never dated each other after high school.” Why did she think they were together? “She married Joe Mueller. You remember him?”
“Sure,” she waved dismissively. “You mean you and Emily didn’t get together after all when we broke up?”
The heat from his burned palate had spread during the last few exchanges, burnishing his flesh a deep, hard red. His napkin began to smolder.
“No,” he managed, after his sputtering died out. “No family.”
“Oh,” she replied, disappointed. “You and Emily made such a great couple.” Emily was his high school girlfriend, a year behind him. She had followed him to college.
“Sorry? We never dated each other after high school.” Why did she think they were together? “She married Joe Mueller. You remember him?”
“Sure,” she waved dismissively. “You mean you and Emily didn’t get together after all when we broke up?”
The heat from his burned palate had spread during the last few exchanges, burnishing his flesh a deep, hard red. His napkin began to smolder.
--
The coffee was getting to him. He got up to use the bathroom for the third time, and the barista cut him off before he could ask if they could watch for his guest with a curt “Yeah. Got you.” On the way back, he stopped at the counter to ask if she came. "It’s been four hours. She isn’t coming. I appreciate you buying all those coffees, man, but give it up.”
--
It was lucky he called when he did; she had scheduled every minute of this trip except this very lunch. A day later, she would have been completely booked. He forced a smile. She had gained a lot of weight. It was jarring. While he knew better, he still expected her to look as she had ten years ago. He hadn’t changed that much. Also heavier, granted, but thanks to the gym, not as heavy as he had been a year ago. He found himself wincing inwardly at her order, counting the calories for her. It was silly, really, expecting her to still be the attractive nineteen-year-old he had met in college. It’s not like he sought her out to rekindle things.
“Mmm. This waffle is amazing. You have to try a bite. It’s just like the ones we used to get at that little place in Midtown.” She proffered a piece dripping with syrup on the end of her fork, a glop of whipped cream sliding onto the table.
He waved it off, muttering something about going gluten-free.
“No? Well, your loss. So, was Emily busy today?” she asked through a mouthful of waffle.
“What? No. I mean…I have no idea.” Didn’t they just go over this? “I haven’t seen her since junior year of college.”
“Well, excuse me for thinking that you left me for the love of your life and not some fling.” She savagely cut another hunk of waffle and wedged it into her mouth.
“Wait, I didn’t leave you.”
“Well, you did cheat on me.”
“You dumped me.”
“After you slept with your high school girlfriend at a party.”
“I didn’t.” But he had. Sort of. Not really. He had forgotten about it. He thought. They were drunk. She was two years younger and had just started at the school. He hadn’t even known she was going to the party. There was no sex involved, though not that they might not have wanted it; he was just too drunk. He had passed out midway through that conversation.
Across the table, she chewed studiously, a blueberry impaled on the tine of the fork she brandished at him, cocking an eyebrow skeptically.
“Mmm. This waffle is amazing. You have to try a bite. It’s just like the ones we used to get at that little place in Midtown.” She proffered a piece dripping with syrup on the end of her fork, a glop of whipped cream sliding onto the table.
He waved it off, muttering something about going gluten-free.
“No? Well, your loss. So, was Emily busy today?” she asked through a mouthful of waffle.
“What? No. I mean…I have no idea.” Didn’t they just go over this? “I haven’t seen her since junior year of college.”
“Well, excuse me for thinking that you left me for the love of your life and not some fling.” She savagely cut another hunk of waffle and wedged it into her mouth.
“Wait, I didn’t leave you.”
“Well, you did cheat on me.”
“You dumped me.”
“After you slept with your high school girlfriend at a party.”
“I didn’t.” But he had. Sort of. Not really. He had forgotten about it. He thought. They were drunk. She was two years younger and had just started at the school. He hadn’t even known she was going to the party. There was no sex involved, though not that they might not have wanted it; he was just too drunk. He had passed out midway through that conversation.
Across the table, she chewed studiously, a blueberry impaled on the tine of the fork she brandished at him, cocking an eyebrow skeptically.
--
She smiled at his witticism and cocked an eyebrow. Just like old times. He lunged over the table, knocking coffee cups and containers of sugar packets onto the floor to kiss her.
--
Had he contacted her earlier, she might have been able to schedule a babysitter and they could have had dinner. On the other hand, this way he got to meet Evan. She beamed at the three-year-old platonic ideal of a towheaded moppet whose artistic ambitions knew no limits, and certainly not those of the paper he was coloring; the masterpiece of abstract art in which he was engaged had long ago exceeded the confines of the paper and spilled onto the tablecloth. Louis wondered if he’d be able to return to the coffee shop after the waitstaff saw the tablecloth. Even if they would serve him, he wasn’t sure he could face them. This meeting was a mistake. Maybe he could surreptitiously leave a large tip, perhaps a note on the receipt. How much does a restaurant tablecloth cost? They probably buy them wholesale. Belatedly, he realized she had asked him a question.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I asked how your child was.”
“I don’t have any kids.” She looked confused. Evan paused, nubbin of tongue peeking out from between his lips. Then, deciding that the work’s color palate was unsatisfactory, he reached for the crayon cup.
“You mean you don’t have any contact with your and Emily’s child anymore?” She put her cup down with a clatter. Evan looked up to see what the commotion was, then returned to destroying the tablecloth.
He had forgotten. After the party, Emily had wanted them to get back together. He didn’t. He was in the midst of a breakup that he seemed to have initiated but couldn’t decide if he wanted. He knew Emily had transferred to the state branch in their hometown after a semester, but she didn’t tell anyone else. Sometime during the mutual torture session that was their breakup, he had insanely suggested that Emily had dropped out and gone home to have a baby. His baby, he had implied, as if that would score him some points, as if his neglect of Emily and his child didn’t render him utterly despicable.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I asked how your child was.”
“I don’t have any kids.” She looked confused. Evan paused, nubbin of tongue peeking out from between his lips. Then, deciding that the work’s color palate was unsatisfactory, he reached for the crayon cup.
“You mean you don’t have any contact with your and Emily’s child anymore?” She put her cup down with a clatter. Evan looked up to see what the commotion was, then returned to destroying the tablecloth.
He had forgotten. After the party, Emily had wanted them to get back together. He didn’t. He was in the midst of a breakup that he seemed to have initiated but couldn’t decide if he wanted. He knew Emily had transferred to the state branch in their hometown after a semester, but she didn’t tell anyone else. Sometime during the mutual torture session that was their breakup, he had insanely suggested that Emily had dropped out and gone home to have a baby. His baby, he had implied, as if that would score him some points, as if his neglect of Emily and his child didn’t render him utterly despicable.
--
“You cheated on me.”
“…I did.”
“…I did.”
--
He thought she looked off-kilter somehow, like she had spent the last ten years in a cave or a cult. At times, she seemed uncharacteristically enthusiastic about something—the weather, the croissants, the way the awning across the street flapped in the breeze—then, triggered by an unpredictable word or look, she would collapse into herself.
“So, how was Boston?” he asked. She withered.
“Oh…it was…well…” she trailed off as if her breath decided of its own volition to reverse itself and shelter in her lungs.
“Anyway,” he took a too-hot sip of cappuccino, scalding his mouth, “You’re in town now?” What a stupid question. She was sitting with him in a coffee shop. Of course she was in town.
“Just for a few days. You’re lucky you called when you did. I have to go home tomorrow.”
“And where is home?”
“Boston.”
“But I thought you said–”
“Anyway, how’s Emily? How’s Emily’s baby?” she asked, head tilted slightly and smiling with that unhinged half-grin she had when enthusing about the croissants.
“So, how was Boston?” he asked. She withered.
“Oh…it was…well…” she trailed off as if her breath decided of its own volition to reverse itself and shelter in her lungs.
“Anyway,” he took a too-hot sip of cappuccino, scalding his mouth, “You’re in town now?” What a stupid question. She was sitting with him in a coffee shop. Of course she was in town.
“Just for a few days. You’re lucky you called when you did. I have to go home tomorrow.”
“And where is home?”
“Boston.”
“But I thought you said–”
“Anyway, how’s Emily? How’s Emily’s baby?” she asked, head tilted slightly and smiling with that unhinged half-grin she had when enthusing about the croissants.
--
It took him a minute to realize the blond in the ball cap and designer sunglasses who breezed in and sat down hadn’t mistaken him for someone else. She sighed theatrically at him and looked around.
“Actually, can we get a different table? Away from the window?” Without waiting for an answer, she got up, waved to the waiter, him, or both of them to follow her to an open table next to the wall, somewhat hidden by the bar.
“You were lucky to catch me. The fires in California are wreaking havoc with shooting schedules. Otherwise, I’d be long gone.” She smiled at him.
“Wait, you’re–”
“Hush.”
He couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe he had missed it. Granted, he didn’t watch much TV, but he had seen ads for her shows.
“I never recognized you.” She seemed pleased at that.
“So, how long have you been back from Seattle?” His stomach sank.
“I…it’s been a while. I’ve been back for a while.”
“The next time I’m home, you should really come out and visit us. I know a lovely café with the most amazing mussels.”
“Actually, can we get a different table? Away from the window?” Without waiting for an answer, she got up, waved to the waiter, him, or both of them to follow her to an open table next to the wall, somewhat hidden by the bar.
“You were lucky to catch me. The fires in California are wreaking havoc with shooting schedules. Otherwise, I’d be long gone.” She smiled at him.
“Wait, you’re–”
“Hush.”
He couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe he had missed it. Granted, he didn’t watch much TV, but he had seen ads for her shows.
“I never recognized you.” She seemed pleased at that.
“So, how long have you been back from Seattle?” His stomach sank.
“I…it’s been a while. I’ve been back for a while.”
“The next time I’m home, you should really come out and visit us. I know a lovely café with the most amazing mussels.”
--
“You cheated on me.”
“I didn’t.”
A flash lit the open kitchen, and an instant later, the kitchen blew itself into the restaurant. He had time to think that nothing on the menu needed any flame before the blast picked him up and tossed him through the window. Thankfully, the table just preceded him. He crawled through the glass to where she lay, blood oozing from a cut across her forehead. Sirens approached from somewhere underwater. His mouth tasted burnt. “Louis, take me away from here,” she mumbled up at him.
“I didn’t.”
A flash lit the open kitchen, and an instant later, the kitchen blew itself into the restaurant. He had time to think that nothing on the menu needed any flame before the blast picked him up and tossed him through the window. Thankfully, the table just preceded him. He crawled through the glass to where she lay, blood oozing from a cut across her forehead. Sirens approached from somewhere underwater. His mouth tasted burnt. “Louis, take me away from here,” she mumbled up at him.
--
“It’s so lucky you called when you did.” He waited. It seemed like she was expecting a response, although there should have been an explanation for why it was lucky.
“It was,” he ventured, managing to pitch it somewhere between a statement and a question.
“It saved me a lot of effort.” She flipped her napkin hard enough that it cracked, then delicately smoothed it on her lap. “Well, not all that much effort. You are dangerously easy to track down.”
She winked. “But the invitation from you is so helpful.”
She looked up and over his shoulder as if she had seen someone she knew or, no, more like someone had suddenly had a massive stroke and fallen off a building. He turned to see what had so captured her attention, but there was nothing there. When he turned back, she was sitting unnaturally still, smiling quietly at him. She picked up her espresso, gestured that he should do the same with his drink, and then raised her cup in a toast.
“I’ve been thinking about this for a long time.”
He took a swallow. It burned.
“It was,” he ventured, managing to pitch it somewhere between a statement and a question.
“It saved me a lot of effort.” She flipped her napkin hard enough that it cracked, then delicately smoothed it on her lap. “Well, not all that much effort. You are dangerously easy to track down.”
She winked. “But the invitation from you is so helpful.”
She looked up and over his shoulder as if she had seen someone she knew or, no, more like someone had suddenly had a massive stroke and fallen off a building. He turned to see what had so captured her attention, but there was nothing there. When he turned back, she was sitting unnaturally still, smiling quietly at him. She picked up her espresso, gestured that he should do the same with his drink, and then raised her cup in a toast.
“I’ve been thinking about this for a long time.”
He took a swallow. It burned.
--
“I have to admit I thought this was a mistake,” she said. He wished she had said it demurely over the rim of her cup, signaling that he’d taken the lead in the conversation with her invitation. Having her say it brusquely in response to his noncommittal word-salad of an explanation for why he decided to call her out of the blue after ten years was far less pleasant. Was she about to get up and leave before even ordering?
The waiter stepped over to the table. “Espresso,” she said, before the waiter had a chance to ask.
“But it seemed like you grew up some, so we’ll see how it goes.”
He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath, but with that first sign of softening, he let go of the tension he had been carrying since he walked in and saw her sitting at the table, looking attentively around at the other customers. She looked older but was unmistakably the same person. His spine curled as he relaxed, pushing his gut over his belt, and he straightened up with a jerk. She looked like she was suppressing a smile.
“Still vain, though.”
“Well,” he squirmed, “One tries to keep up appearances.”
“Indeed. Now that you’re here, you can hold the table for a moment. Don’t worry, I’ll be back.”
The gust of her scent as she walked past blew him back to college, evenings spent on the couch in her shared apartment, mornings in the king-size bed that took up ninety-five percent of her room. He had never wanted to leave that bed.
A knock on the window broke him of his reverie. He turned and recoiled from the filthy, disheveled man whose forehead was pressed against the glass. His presumably fetid breath steamed up the glass, which, fading, revealed his dead brown eyes before the next breath covered them. The man simply stood there, looking at him or his table or deep into the tragic past that led him to pitch face-first into random café windows. Louis walked up to the counter and asked the barista to have the man removed. By the time he returned to the table, she had reseated herself and the man was gone. He thought about telling her but didn’t. Creepy wasn’t the vibe he wanted, and once started, he wasn’t sure he could avoid telling her how, between glass foggings, the homeless man’s eyes had turned from deep brown to cerulean and back again.
“I wasn’t trying to rekindle anything,” he gushed after sitting down. In the confusion of the apparition of the window and his being somehow wrong-footed since he arrived, his carefully articulated, witty conversation had condensed into that barely believable protest.
“Good.”
“I mean, you made your wishes clear then, and I…I respect that.”
“Well, you did end our relationship,” she said.
“Wait a minute. You dumped me.”
“Yes, after I told you I had a great job lined up in Boston, and you said you were going to Seattle, even though you didn’t have a job, a place to stay, or anything resembling a plan. That made it pretty clear that I wasn’t a part of your future. And then, three weeks later, you hooked up with your old girlfriend at a party.”
“You said you were going to Boston but didn’t mention me at all. What else was I supposed to think? You were going to come to Seattle with me.”
“You never asked me. You just assumed I’d drop my plans—my job—and follow you.”
“I–” He broke eye contact, his gaze dashing around the café in search of some haven—a waiter, a noisy child, the homeless man with the bichromatic eyes.
The waiter stepped over to the table. “Espresso,” she said, before the waiter had a chance to ask.
“But it seemed like you grew up some, so we’ll see how it goes.”
He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath, but with that first sign of softening, he let go of the tension he had been carrying since he walked in and saw her sitting at the table, looking attentively around at the other customers. She looked older but was unmistakably the same person. His spine curled as he relaxed, pushing his gut over his belt, and he straightened up with a jerk. She looked like she was suppressing a smile.
“Still vain, though.”
“Well,” he squirmed, “One tries to keep up appearances.”
“Indeed. Now that you’re here, you can hold the table for a moment. Don’t worry, I’ll be back.”
The gust of her scent as she walked past blew him back to college, evenings spent on the couch in her shared apartment, mornings in the king-size bed that took up ninety-five percent of her room. He had never wanted to leave that bed.
A knock on the window broke him of his reverie. He turned and recoiled from the filthy, disheveled man whose forehead was pressed against the glass. His presumably fetid breath steamed up the glass, which, fading, revealed his dead brown eyes before the next breath covered them. The man simply stood there, looking at him or his table or deep into the tragic past that led him to pitch face-first into random café windows. Louis walked up to the counter and asked the barista to have the man removed. By the time he returned to the table, she had reseated herself and the man was gone. He thought about telling her but didn’t. Creepy wasn’t the vibe he wanted, and once started, he wasn’t sure he could avoid telling her how, between glass foggings, the homeless man’s eyes had turned from deep brown to cerulean and back again.
“I wasn’t trying to rekindle anything,” he gushed after sitting down. In the confusion of the apparition of the window and his being somehow wrong-footed since he arrived, his carefully articulated, witty conversation had condensed into that barely believable protest.
“Good.”
“I mean, you made your wishes clear then, and I…I respect that.”
“Well, you did end our relationship,” she said.
“Wait a minute. You dumped me.”
“Yes, after I told you I had a great job lined up in Boston, and you said you were going to Seattle, even though you didn’t have a job, a place to stay, or anything resembling a plan. That made it pretty clear that I wasn’t a part of your future. And then, three weeks later, you hooked up with your old girlfriend at a party.”
“You said you were going to Boston but didn’t mention me at all. What else was I supposed to think? You were going to come to Seattle with me.”
“You never asked me. You just assumed I’d drop my plans—my job—and follow you.”
“I–” He broke eye contact, his gaze dashing around the café in search of some haven—a waiter, a noisy child, the homeless man with the bichromatic eyes.
--
A Viking tattoo covered the left half of her face. Geometric patterns in blue and hints of something wolf-like. He had been able to discern her arrival by the wave of attention the other patrons threw upon her. He was lucky to have caught her before she left. There was a huge solstice celebration in Trondheim, and her handmade axe company was sponsoring a mead drinking contest there.
--
As he left the café, a mockingbird dropped down from the streetlight to wait on the sidewalk at the corner of the next street. With a sense that some momentous event was imminent, he rushed down the last half of the block to the corner, but in the light afternoon traffic on the sidewalk, he lost sight of the bird. “It’s gone around the corner,” he thought. “When I, too, turn that corner, it will be like my dream, and the bird will hop towards me.” But when he turned the corner, a dusty sparrow startled at his clattering halt, chirped, and fled.
About the Writer
Words arranged by Patrick M. Hare have appeared in The Stirling Spoon, Vestal Review, and Photochemistry and Photobiology. They are mostly good words and only a few are made up. He lives near Cincinnati, OH, but can be found on Twitter.
