A pigeon sits on my steel windowsill, fussing over a pile of sticks. There’s six of them, maybe seven, lying in strange disarray around a couple of eggs. An attempt at a nest, I suppose. But who am I to judge? Humans once domesticated pigeons — they were our messengers. But humanity found something better, and we left the poor birds behind. We were fine, but they’d forgotten what it was like to be alone. That’s why they struggle to build nests. It’s not their fault. I’m sorry, pigeon.
She continues to peck at her mess of twigs. Mrs. Pigeon, I’ll call her.
Rustling. A key fumbling in a lock. He’s back. Now it’s going to be me, Mrs. Pigeon, and him. But Mrs. Pigeon will leave. Birds don’t stay in one place very long, do they? Then again, she’s a mother. Her children are on my windowsill. She’s anchored here; I think she’ll be back.
The door opens. I shift on the couch, facing the now open doorway. There he is, dressed in his closed black overcoat with his bright red tie. His neatly combed hair, and a beard trimmed just right. He’s got his coat clenched tightly: something in there he doesn’t want me to see.
Mrs. Pigeon, I wonder who got you pregnant. Does he hide things from you, too?
He takes a right and goes into our bedroom. If he’d gone forward, down the hall, he’d have run into me. Behind him, the door closes. I think I wanted to greet him. I mean, I was supposed to. But he isn’t supposed to hide things, so neither of us have acted quite right.
The door opens. He’s not wearing his coat anymore. White shirt, and a tie. Does he think that he’s deceived me? I mean, perhaps he has; I know what he did, but not the specifics. The specifics are what matter. I would know that, because I should be an author.
‘Heather? How are you?’ He sounds unfazed. Tries to. Underneath his voice, there’s a slight shakiness. The weight of deceit.
‘I’m fine, dear. How was work today?’ I ask.
‘Same old. I’m just glad to be back here.’ No eye contact. He can’t tell a straight-faced lie, and he knows it. Why don’t I just go see what he’s hiding? Really, why don’t I?
‘I’ve been bored today.’ I sigh, leaning back into the couch. 'There’s nothing to do around the house.’
‘I thought you were working on something. A novel this time, no?’ He holds his hands together, rubbing the two indexes against each other. Fidgeting.
‘It’s not been going well. So I stopped.’ I look back to Mrs. Pigeon. ‘You can’t force it, Elliot. If I don’t feel creative then I won’t be. I’m stuck.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Apologizing. But for what? ‘There’s something I got for you. It’s a ... um. I should just show you.’ He gets up and motions toward the bedroom. Still can’t look me in the eyes. His head is pointed down. My heart pounding. Really, I don’t want to know.
When I come back, Mrs. Pigeon, you better be there.
He leads me in and gestures to the bed. There’s something there. A bundle of roses. But it’s not right. They’re —
‘I know you hate flowers. You think they’re wasteful. And I agree. So I got you wooden roses,’ he says, scratching his neck. ‘Just as beautiful, but they, uh. Sorry.’
‘Why are the flowers black?’
‘The sculptor put too much dye. And they already took a month to make. If I ordered another, they would’ve come so much later. I’m sorry. I really am.’
Forgive me, but am I supposed to be flattered by a bouquet of dead, black roses? Is this how he celebrates me? I mean—it's not that I don’t love him, but—what is it, then? Why does he seem so far away?
‘Thank you. It’s the thought that counts, you know,’ I say. Should I hug him? Maybe. But I don’t feel like it.
He smiles at me, then walks back to the kitchen. His eyes never met mine. I wonder if he loves me still.
I follow him back, and Mrs. Pigeon is sat waiting. There was something else, don’t you think?
She chirps. I’ll assume that was a yes, because an interjecting 'no' wouldn’t make sense in that context.
I think I have to ask.
‘Elliot, earlier — was there anything else under your coat? Other than the flowers.’ I bite my lip.
He gazes at me, an eyebrow raised. 'What are you talking about?’
‘Is there something I’m not being told?’
‘I—I don’t understand,’ he says, his voice wavering.
I sit down next to him, my breaths shallow. ‘You were avoiding my eyes. Why?’
‘I’m looking at you right now, Heather. I hope that’s enough.’ His hands clasp around his knees.
‘You know it’s more than just eye contact,’ I say. ‘There’s a connection that isn’t being made. And it bothers me.’
‘You’re accusing me of something, and I haven’t done anything. Please, don’t make up an issue where there isn’t one.’
‘I’m not accusing you of anything. I just want to know, Elliot; what is it that’s between us?’ My heart stops.
He sighs. ‘I’m not sure, Heather. I don’t feel anything.’ There it is. For a moment, the world freezes. His words echo in my head, unraveling all the knots tying up my thoughts. I want to be sad, or angry even, but my heart is numb. If there’s anything at all, maybe it’s relief.
‘Neither do I,’ I respond.
There’s nothing between us. Nothing at all.
Outside, Mrs. Pigeon flutters away, leaving behind her mess of sticks. Fly far, my friend. Spend some time away from this nest. You deserve to be happy.
‘If that’s how we both feel, then why are we still talking about it?’ says Elliot, his eyes flickering. He doesn’t get it. Or he doesn’t want to. I furrow my brow, because I should be frustrated, but my heart is left empty. I see his restless hands move to his thigh, tapping as they go. I wonder when they stopped reaching for me.
There’s nothing else to be said, so I go back into our room. One of the petals on my faux bouquet is chipped. I didn’t notice that before, but I suppose a dent in an already ruined carving won’t do much. Outside, Elliot clicks away on his laptop. Somewhere, someone needs him. How magnificent.
Now, here I am once more, sat with my journal open and my pen in hand. I’ve written so much, but I’ve said nothing.
What a pigeon I have made of myself.
About the author
Eric Dogini is a novice writer looking to break into the literary world. He lives in the United States, near the Appalachian Mountains. His pastimes include writing and spending time with his dog, Lucky.
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