This Happened in 1992…in October then…

Intermission. Interfere; you little…No, no. No. I’m-not-listening-to-another-sodding-WORD.

She went off to shower he little pinky self and I stayed by the window, puffing on a dirty roll up and flicking green bread to skinny sparrows. I listen to a sort of high-pitched rumble in their diddy chests. Was one going to popp off its perchless?

And Pinky? I can hear water slapping the bath. Still cleaning herself up. Bubbles around her feathers; tears upon the redbreast; steamboats in there.

And the chair squeals under my backside. My trousers pucker with the light rain that fans in through the yellow netcurtains. The sparrows pickin holes bigger and bigger; that little one (there is always one bolder than the rest (a leader, if you like)), you’d think it was I that was in his house. Here he is, little fleshy twigs for feet tickling my forearms. The smoke stroking its beak. I could swear it inhaled just then. I laugh.

‘What?’ hollers Pinky, annoyed.

Then Top Sparrow zipped out the hole in the yellow net curtains faster that my eyes could catch. At least, he wasn’t there anymore, and I heard its wings tickle, flutter a short spurt of energy to take him away. Perhaps he was never there.

I tap off the ash from the dirty roll up and hold the tip close to where the Leader Sparrow may or may not have been.

‘Ow!’ Pinky turns on the hot water too much.

Again.

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