Mockingbirds

Briana Munoz

The birds were always around us. We would drive up to the loneliest hill of our tiresome town. We’d

observe the tiny lights and cars, the size of ants driving past, busily. We’d stare at the occupied houses

these fools called home. Their eyes glued to their cell phones while sitting at their antique English oak

dinner tables eating white rice and unseasoned steak. Connecting with disconnected souls.

We’d sit, letting the cold air chill our bones, chain smoking cigarettes. He’d dramatically recite to me

memorized lines of Baudelaire, Hemingway, Kerouac, of course some Edgar Allan Poe but always in a

mocking sense. I’d laugh.

On top of the hood of my car, sitting on top of the hill- we felt on top of our own perfect world. We’d

hear them chirping.

For a second, the city almost seemed pretty.

“Once people get into a relationship, everything changes. They feel the constraint of certain

obligations.” He was scared.

“Everything is constantly changing, regardless, silly. That’s just… well, life.” So was I.

In his bed or mine, we’d lay, bodies delicately placed diagonally on the mattress, pressed up against

another like in an attempt to morph into one. Yet, nothing ever felt close enough. My messy hair

dangling off of the bed like an old, rusty chandelier. Windows wide open, the sun creeping in through

the cracks of the wooden blinds, we’d intertwine our legs for warmth. I’d carefully place my hand into

the back pocket of his khaki pants. He’d lift up my shirt just enough to feel my skin and press his hands

against my stomach. With his fingers he’d pretend to engrave my skin with the stanzas of his favorite

T.S. Eliot poems. He’d call me his half pint smidgen of a woman, his little lady, his daisy, he’d call me- his.

Nothing could interrupt the kingdom we had built. Nothing could disturb our utopia. Nothing except for

those god damned beautiful little birds.

“What do you suppose they tell each other, darling?”

He’d ask, staring at my hands which he held in his own.

I’d look up, curiously, at his electric green eyes that were always dimmed behind a pair of glasses.

“Out there. Those birds, what do you think they say to each other?”

“That she wants more.” I’d hide under the blankets but I’d still remain close.

Some nights, I’d inevitably remind myself that I wasn’t his and he was not truly mine. After half of a

bottle of cheap tequila, that would really seem to bother me. The next morning, I’d end up in an

unfamiliar bed- naked, cold. The sun breaking through the window and the trash trucks roaring would

worsen the throbbing pain in my head. I’d spot a pair of shoes in the corner of the room, big, like his. I’d

spot a Charles Bukowski book on the shelf and I’d remember that he couldn’t stand Bukowski’s drunk

ass. In attempt to feel something, for someone else, I’d realize how no one could possibly, now,

measure up to him. But I was stubborn and could never bring myself to directly ask for that.

Other nights, he’d say that what we were doing was completely and utterly foolish.

“Do me a favor?” He’d ask. “Don’t talk to me ever again.”

He’d go on rampages of ridiculously big words that were not in the vocabulary of most other guys his

age, trying to justify that cutting me out of his life was for my sake. It was in some way, to me, actually

sort of amusing.

“You bring me such happiness, you see, and I’m just not built for that or capable or deserving of being

happy.” He’d rant on. The first few times I’d try to convince him otherwise. The following times, I’d start

to get offended. Eventually, I just accepted it as routine.

But somehow, we’d both end up, back at the place we found comfort in, surrounded by fluttering

feathers and hymns chirped on Sunday mornings, by those silly little fucking birds. Drinking black coffee,

chain smoking cigarettes, watching the sun rise, with our mouths speechless and our minds left still.

Something about the early mornings would distract us and for once, we wouldn’t bother to question a

thing. I guess I can’t say I was surprised, you see. He had warned me, from the start. He was

complicated. He was a writer, after all, and that was alright because so was I.