Pigeon: An Excerpt

All he wanted was a sandwich.

He walked into the apart­ment and had the two bags of tar down on the side table before he saw the table set with nice plates and fancy glasses, the knives and forks heat­ing up in the sun.

What’s all this?” he called into the kitchen.

Pigeon didn’t answer.  He could hear her bang­ing around.

Desmond shook his head.  A sand­wich wasn’t that hard.

Sit at the table, Dez.  I’ll bring the food out.”

She sounded like a blown-out inter­com.  Desmond thought about just leav­ing, but he was hungry.

I want a sand­wich,” he called out as he sat down.  The pis­tol jammed up against the small of his back.  He pulled it out and set it on the cen­ter of the table.

You’ll like this.”

She came out of the kitchen car­ry­ing two white bowls in her hands.  Her hair was mat­ted against her face on one side and her nose was swollen and pur­ple.  Blood streaked across her jaw like a crazy scar.  Her t-shirt was stained.

You look like shit, Pigeon,” Desmond said.

Here,” she said, like she was audi­tion­ing for a cook­ing show.

Desmond looked inside the bowls.  The green and brown specks were minced so fine they were almost liquid.

You plan­ning on eat­ing through a straw when I break your jaw?” he asked.  “I said, I want a sandwich.”

You’re going to love this Dez, I promise.  It will make your pee taste even bet­ter, and I liked it, I didn’t think so, but I did, just not hit­ting my nose.”

Desmond shook his head.  She was into the kinky stuff.  He won­dered if was pos­si­ble to hurt her enough to make her shut up.

 

The stash on the side table was singing some kind of crazy mari­achi music that made Pigeon want to rip her top off and shake her booty faster than a jack hammer.

You found it!  We gonna try it out?” she cried.

Desmond leaned over the table and pushed his fin­ger into her hip.  She tum­bled into a chair.

No,” he said,  “You’re pathetic.”

Pigeon ran her fin­gers through the salad.

Try it Dez.  You’re gonna like it, I promise.”

I’m get­ting a sand­wich.  You need to clean your­self the fuck up.”

He stopped next to her.  He wasn’t a big man, he was hardly big­ger than her, but he was smooth like seashells, and Pigeon loved when he locked her body up in his so she felt like she could never fall.  She put her hand on his thigh.

Desmond pushed her nose with his finger.

That hurt?” he asked.

Mmmph.” She didn’t want him to hear her cry out.  She fum­bled for his zipper.

Desmond pulled away and went into the kitchen.

What is sprout bread?” he called.

The pain grabbed at the base of her nose like a flick­er­ing flame.

He needed to under­stand that her choices were what would make her grow as a per­son, so they could stay together and never get stale.  Being strong in her­self was how she could have the con­fi­dence to try new things.  That was what Desmond was always talk­ing about, new things.  Drink­ing wheat juice and eat­ing sprout bread made her feel good about her­self and that made her want to try things Desmond wanted.  Like with Tree­nie maybe.

Desmond came to the kitchen open­ing.  He was hold­ing her bot­tle of wheat juice.

This shit stinks,” he said.  “You stink.  You’re waste product.”

When he tipped the wheat juice over and poured it out on the floor, Pigeon real­ized what he looked like: one of those lawn jock­eys, all black and shiny with sparkling white teeth and lips as ripe as plum toma­toes.  The pain in her nose blos­somed into an explo­sion of white.  She ground her teeth so hard that her jaw cracked.  She couldn’t tell if she was cry­ing or not.

Desmond didn’t want her to make good choices.

When she moaned, the lawn jockey laughed.  The sound picked her head apart and broke it into four pieces.  Her eyes burned from the light stream­ing out of its cav­ernous mouth.

Pigeon told her­self that she knew how to make good choices now.  She picked up the stubby pis­tol, pointed it at Desmond and fired.  The lawn jockey stopped laugh­ing.  The juice bot­tle cracked on the floor.

She didn’t bother to watch him fall.