Plastic Orlando: Kidnapping, Murder, and Other Dinner Table Topics

She saw on a branch a bird with his head hung low. He was brilliant once, she thought, but now his colors were dull and drab as if dusted with ash. Under the tree with the bird on the branch was a little heart, bloodless, but beating along steadily nonetheless, unaware it had been devoid of its purpose. This must belong to you, she insisted, but his interest in such things as living and breathing waned. Still she persisted, while he rued over memories and dark thoughts, unhappy to be here, dying like this.

In his little bird brain are home movies and in them is a fountain where she dances and bathes. In itself her beauty was an atmosphere and the climate it created he imagined was not unlike what the birds of Eden enjoyed. He (secretly) listens to her sing. He watches himself collect sticks with her. He remembers what they built right here in this tree, where later his heart would fall out of him for a little girl to find. She would offer it back to him. He would refuse.

His interest in such things as living and breathing waned, and besides- the space had been filled, and that old heart would simply have to find another place to live. The sad old bird waited for his body to notice the absence of its most vital organ, but it didn't.

Meanwhile, she waited.