07.24.06
hirundine
He strokes the head of the stuffed bird and as his fingers pass, the fingers do not ruffle. I�m worried that it will peck out my eyes so to comfort myself I look at his, roaming through the air, searching.
�They had built their home in our barn. We hadn�t noticed until one day I saw the little nest there, like a teacup, and the perfectly painted eggs inside.�
It was those searching eyes that drew me to him, watching him drink hot chocolate with his fingers wrapped around the steaming cup. His eyes were lost, as if untangling the umbilical cord of some massive birth. Yes, he had touched my face, but that was his nature. He wanted to know how my eyelashes could be so long, how my lips could feel so hot and I squirmed under his attention. Suddenly I remembered how my shirt had not been pressed. Suddenly the elbows of my jacket shined.
�I couldn�t help to pick one up from its soft bed, to shake it around like a wrapped present. I don�t think they took very well to that.�
He stops stroking the bird and smiles in my direction.
�They seemed very angry with me.�
He laughs.
He wanted me to go home. I was a lost boy, he said. I wish I could, I said. He had tried to read my palms with his fingers, but I drew my hands away. It tickled. Why should he tickle me?
Bringing the bird up to his cheek, he presses the small, short beak to his nose and I worry for a moment that it will rip out his eyes as well. I hold my breath and look away.
�Her neck broke so easily�
shi-ou-sama at
