She was a Wire Bird

She had wide, used eyes, like those of an abused child, that awoke the predator in me.

Snow delighted her. I hated the cold. She waded naked into a black-water creek in twenty degrees, once, shortly after we met. I stood on the ice and watched her madness sink beneath the iron-flashing surface.

She went to Cornell for a semester, she told me. Arched her back beneath a nearby waterfall and drowned in autumn's colours. I don't know what she studied, maybe something like ergonomics or statistical philosophy.

She was a wire bird flashing across a window pane and I wanted to keep her reflection framed on my desk forever.

"You're too numb," she said once, and laughed.

I just shrugged and smiled. She stroked my "gruff" face and said, "Your eyes are almost as dead as mine," and we did it right there behind a scarred oak tree, brittle twigs snapping beneath.

I would like to say our encounter ended with her drowning in the bathtub and me stuffing her body in my closet to rot for a month.

It did not end so romantically.

She left a silver pen on my bed beside a blank notebook. She wrote nothing inside. She hated writing.

I guess she blocked my number and moved off to someplace with icier waterfalls. Maybe Sweden. Maybe Alaska. Maybe a few blocks down the street from her cold, crusty apartment.

It is raining now. Everything feels like glass. A twinge trickles through me as I think of her rabbit face and her carved-metal figure.

"Why do I love such twisted men?" she asked, almost philosophically, on a snowy spring night.

A ludicrous question, and the last thing she ever said to me.

I guess all metal must rust, eventually.

Short story by pok-a-dolt
Read 538 times
star mini Editors' choice
Written on 2016-12-30 at 22:26

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This is some fine, fine writing.

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Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Very nice.