June 9, 2007

Pisces 4

When she wheeled up with the grocery cart and opened the trunk of the car with the remote keypad, the egret didn't move. This filled her with a surge of delight. She transfered the groceries into the trunk with delicate stealth, hoping to prolong its stay. She brought the trunk lid down with an attenuated airborne swoop. As she approached the driver's side, she wondered if the bird would suddenly ascend, wings flapping chaotically. But it only shifted slightly on its matchstick legs.


"I've been waiting for you," it said, in a voice whose kindness left her breathless.

"You have?" she said, as a huge blanket of serenity seemed to waft down upon her. Her eyes welled with tears, and she could scarcely contain her joy.

"Open the door," the egret said calmly, craning its neck around to peer into her eyes. "We have so much to talk about."

She clicked the keypad and the door sprang ajar. Stepping slightly aside she opened the door, and the bird flew into the car, alighting on the passenger seat. She got in and drove off. Her license tag, a vanity plate, said PISCES 4. The boy was watching from his bike. When he got home, he went upstairs to tell his sister Megan. But she was gabbing on the phone, in that annoying overly-important way she had affected lately, and he decided against it.

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