A Woman and Her Pigeons
By MITCHELL HARGREAVES
Snow had salted her black bucket hat though she would not have noticed. Her eyes, bluish squints behind thick and humid glasses, watched the birds. She was a frail woman and whenever she spoke, her spindly arms would stay crossed in her lap. But for the most part she kept silent. The birds sang for her and she listened.
Her hand trembled as it strained towards the ground. Grey pigeons with rainbows in their tails shuffled toward a deeply lined palm filled with food. The birds pecked at the small shreds of starchy white bread. They cooed and the woman’s jowls tightened just slightly. It was good to be loved.
Beside her on the bench sat the crusty butt of a loaf of bread. Specks of white covered it and though she couldn’t tell whether it was mould or snow she knew it was unfit for her friends. Crumbs fell onto her dark sweater as she chewed the bread. Breakfast could have used butter, but she didn’t have any.
Three times the woman smacked her lips together. “That is good bread. I would have given you some but it was old and crusty.” One bird fluttered to a nearby bench. “Tomorrow I will bring a fresh loaf for us to share.” A flurry of feathers crashed into the ground. One pigeon snapped at another before fluttering off again. Still hungry, the flock began to wander around the icy pavement.
Two birds that hadn’t left the woman hurriedly hobbled away when a man with glue in his hair passed through them. Biting her lip, the woman stared at the filthy ground. Pink gum had stretched itself inside a crack. People always littered at her bench.
The man sat spread-eagled beside her. He lay back against the bench for a second before changing his mind to bend towards his legs. He looked warm in his jeans. The woman peered down to see him tying his shoe. He seemed fidgety. Again, he lay back against the bench.
She couldn’t figure out why he had sat beside her. She had seen other people stand against a street lamp. It wasn’t his bench, after all. She coughed noisily into her sweater. A warm mist hung in the air.
The man glanced at her. “There’s a cold going around. You going to be okay?” His lips curled up and his face looked wrinkled.
She shook her head. “I’m fine.” Her arms tightened around her stomach.
A bird flapped down near the man’s boots and strutted about the bench. He kicked at it and clapped his hands, sending the bird into the street. Falling back roughly, he ran a hand through his hair sending a spray of snow onto the woman’s neck.
She rolled her shoulders into her neck and shut her eyes. The snow felt so hot she thought it would burn through her neck. He didn’t know the pain he had caused her.
Her nose felt moist and she ran the back of her hand across it. Wet hands hung in her lap as she began to snifle. She snorted loudly and the man beside her rustled.
Maybe he had decided to leave. He looked over and hung a tissue in front of her. “I think the weather’s getting to you.”
She stared at the soft tissue for a moment before taking it. He had nerve thinking she needed his help. But the tissue was absorbant and soon she had crumpled it into a loose, wet ball.
In that moment she realized how much that tissue cupped in her hands meant to her. She turned towards the man to thank him, but he had already gone.
She set the tissue beside her on the bench and went to buy a loaf of bread.
Posted 18 JAN 05 in Fantastic Fiction
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