Even though it’s new the wires of your cage door still rattle. Cold inside, you demand a constant 71 degrees. Pop and techno hit me in the face like that puff of air at the eye doctor: jarring distracting slightly painful.
Peculiar keepsakes on display; like that odd family photo ridiculously large lunging its welcome from the foyer wall. Your plump daughters wearing ringlets and uncertain smiles hang between your arrogant head. You. Everywhere. A shrine.
We sit outside with mixed drinks you talk about your neighbor the sushi king and how this neighborhood means you’ve irrevocably arrived. Meanwhile, I am bored. Terribly
You keep talking, although I was not finished with that sentence yet.
I am watching your words drop like dead leaves you point at them with one hand and cover my mouth with the other But getting drunk, laid, and rich are not my super powers. And I can’t dumb my vocabulary down any lower.
I turn to look at the front door behind us and nearly choke on the claustrophobia in my throat. It’d be a really great offer if I didn’t have a soul. Water from your lawn runs down the cul-de-sac lined with desolate cages. I escape to the driveway where my gas gauge is empty but my wings? My wings are fully extended.