Up Wandering the Upper West Side

A short story about pitying birds

I was walking with a girl at night in the wind in the winter. We were friends, but far from more, and though we’d had our fun doing some sterilized and since-forgotten social thing in Midtown, it was over, and I think we were both just waiting for the moment we could be alone in bed again.

“It was nice of you to take me home,” she said, a little ahead and far on the other side of the sidewalk. It was late, and hardly anyone else was out. It must’ve been the coldest night of the year, too; we kept hands stuffed in pockets, eyes glued to the ground, and feet shuffling fast as we spoke.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way!” I exclaimed, loud enough for a faint glaring figure on the other side of the street to hear. I didn’t pay him any heed. My senses had stayed scrammed by the mix of blood and honey I’d had to drink. “It was a little loud in there to get to say much of anything, right?”

“No, really, wasn’t it? Oh my god,” she laughed. I looked to her; her smile had already fled but she made sure to restore it for a second more. “I enjoyed getting to talk to you on the way back.”

“I did too.”

“And that’s my place!” She skipped to the door. I stood and made a show of a hearty laugh.

“So I’ll be seeing you around?” I cried after her.

“Yes, obviously, stupid! Goodnight!” she cried back, already turning around to open the door. “Have…