Featherette

Clara climbed off Barry and fell onto her pillow with an exhausted and feathery flump. She focused on the crack in the ceiling and caught her breath, Barry closed his eyes and enjoyed the endorphins floating around his body.

He took comfort in picking out the familiar. The hollow scrape of a box of matches. Then its scratch and flare. The pungent sulphur catching his nostrils and the soft pop and crackle of Clara’s cigarette.

He turned his head on his pillow and admired her profile. Her strong brow, the delicate beak that first seduced him all those years ago.

She passed him the cigarette. He smiled at how big and clumsy his human fingers looked as he took it from her beautiful yellow foot.

“Maude is popping in this afternoon” said Barry.

“Looks like I’ll be in the coop then, doing my ‘Stupid Wildfowl’ impression.” she replied bellowing smoke.

“It won’t be for long chicken, she’s just popping in for the varnish.”

“Don’t call me that” she said.

“It’s a term of endearment” he chuckled

“I mean it. It’s patronising. Anyway my egg sack hurts.”

“Spare me the details”

“Spare you the details? I could be pregnant Barry!”

“Really?...Fuck!”

“Yes, ‘Fuck!’ ”

Clara jumped out of bed and paced around the room. Barry could just make out the crest of her head bobbing about at the end of the bed.

“Is it possible?” he groaned

“Absolutely Barry, Bobby McFerrin’s dad was a Suffolk Bantam.”

“Get stuffed”

“Don’t use that expression.”

She stopped pacing and pecked his big toe. The endorphins were all used up and Barry felt a bit shaky.

“Fancy some waffles?” she quipped.

“Go on then”