Feathered Heart

The sun felt warm on her back, and the scent of her coffee-soaked seat (the Styrofoam cup lay wedged in the plastic pocket attached to the interior of the car door) wafted gently up to her nose. It wasn't long before she found herself in between the valley of wake and sleep. The scent of coffee swirled in front of her in blackened specks and swirls. The cheer for a home-run ran its way from the radio, into her head, and back again, and again.

The velocity of the car picked up, faster and faster. She could hear the speed. Feel the gentle hammock-like swinging of her body in the car seat. Feel the cramp in her neck, from resting her head on the window for hours.  

She ignored the pain and began to dream. Of the hazy gradient of the polluted sky, and the creamsicle fragrance of ponderosa trees. And of many warped realities. And of the unrequited adulation that she craved (as many teenage girls do) when they pass by shopping mall mirrors. 

And finally, of a feathered heart composed of lime parrotlets. Each parrotlet un-individuated and undetectable to her eye, but soft and sweet on her tongue. She plucked them off in the palm of her hand, one by one, until the heart shape disintegrated into a single parrotlet. Curled up and still in her hand. Content under the fluorescent lighting of the grocery store. 

Until it unfurled and looked up at the girl, with its sharp, loving eyes. Cocking its head, it made many other movements, and then purred. Its beak was smooth and shiny, like the exoskeleton of a stag beetle.

"I can't eat you," she said, depressed. For she thought that she'd have one more snack. "You're real."

"Love me," sang the parrotlet. "Love me. Love me. Love me.

Love me."