The pigeon stood next to the mug with our toothbrushes, the one that says Love Me, Love My Dachshund. We’d never owned one, or any dog. Andrea had opened the window to the winter morning. She often does after a hot bath so her long black hair won’t frizz. This hair is a constant source of household distress. I regularly pull ropes of it from the drain, clotted with muck. The pigeon was the regular kind. I’ve been to cities where pigeons vary. Some of them are even white, or at least off-white. I always thought these pigeons were royalty. In our city there are only gray ones, with a little iridescence like they’ve been sprinkled with gasoline. The pigeon’s feathers puffed out and in as if he were breathing through them. Funny how you always say he. I’ve heard a bird in the house means someone is going to die. You’re late, I thought at the pigeon. My wife had lost what she’d been carrying around for four months on Tuesday. This was Thursday. The pigeon kept doing the puffing thing. His red feet looked like they were made of plastic. We’d have to throw our toothbrushes away to be on the safe side. We didn’t want to know what it had been. But we’d been calling it Bettie. I said she’d be a pinup. I said do they make fishnets in baby size? We’ll need newborn corsets, Andrea said. Infant garters. The time before it had happened after two months. There had been no pigeon. We could locate a breeder, get a Dachshund. The mug wouldn’t be funny anymore. The pigeon hopped out the window. I did not see it take wing, but I must assume.
