By: Abigail Weintraub
No pigeons arrived today.
They would usually flock in fives or tens at her feet. A janky combination of metallic emerald and raspberry hues shimmer like scales between each feather. She often paid attention to the colors when there was nothing else worth paying attention to. The little, jewel-colored birds were on Bethany’s mind for so long that it would come as a disappointment to her when, after stepping out of the city’s middle-of-the-road burger place, she would discover the space in front of the door would be empty of the birds.
Earlier, in this one particular burger bar, Bethany had asked the cashier for some chips. The young man behind the counter raised an eyebrow a moment before she corrected herself. Two pairs of eyes locked onto each other. He understood before she needed to raise her voice again. She could see it in his eyes. Chips? Fries. Things were different here. For a girl who spent most of her time with animals, the idea of being “different” was foreign.
Di-ding. The door swung open, and Bethany exited, a small basket of fries nested in her arms . Although she wasn’t greeted by the pigeons, it felt as if she had walked into the arms of life’s embrace as soon as she stepped out of the doorway. A bittersweet feeling, something to tell her that everything was okay, despite the absence of a number of birds who weren’t there to say so themselves. Disappointment welled inside her, although it was a comforting sort of disappointment.
Every day was full of disappointment, really. Each morning, Bethany would recall whether she had woken up on the wrong side of her bed, except she doubted that she had slept in it enough times to even consider it her bed. The only things that she considered hers were the faux-fur ankle boots and denim overalls she always wore. Back in her small rural community in England, it didn’t feel foreign to have a bed to sleep in, a place to feel contained. Here… it was impossible to be contained. Bright colors plastered against muted shades of brown, posters and lights and lamp-adorned streets. The sky was too high, too exposed. So, down on the ground, crouched over, and knees ever so slightly grazing the concrete below, she’d feed the pigeons.
Things were different though, because today, there were none. So Bethany sat on the cold, paved sidewalk. As a brisk wind swept along, tickling blooms and tossing a single leaf into the air, Bethany sat. Her arms were wrapped around her knees, her dark brown bangs swinging with the wind. She noticed the rich, velvety purples of the violets planted nearby. The sky was also transitioning from a faded periwinkle to a deep pink with paintbrush strokes of white here and there. People walked around her, their eyes silently focused on a distant point ahead. They didn’t take notice of the young girl sitting in the middle of the sidewalk running her fingers through her hair and observing the colors.
A young girl, a full basket of fries at her side, and an absence of pigeons. It was a quiet and lonely time, but she was at peace, just like how it was before.