Page 168 of Burn Bright
Harriet
Tell him he sounds like a celestial Gerard Way.
Ben
That assumes he cares what I think about his music. My opinion isn’t gospel to him.
Harriet
Who’s is?
Ben
Honestly…himself.
Harriet
How am I not surprised?
Ben
Another night then, Fisher?
Harriet
Yep. The quest continues.
38
HARRIET FISHER
Sunday at the End of the World begins slow, and I’m happy about the lull tonight. Because I can spend more time swiping through Ben’s phone while he’s pressed up against my side. Dish towel slung over his shoulder, and his old worn baseball cap flipped backward—at times it’s harder to pay attention to anything but him.
I swipe into the next video in his album titledmes amours.
A little gray feathered bird with a yellow head and bright orange blush-like circles bounces to the beat of “Another One Bites the Dust” and whistles the tune.
“Theodore,” Ben names him since both his cockatiels look so similar to me. Same coloring, nearly same size. He has hundreds of these videos saved.
It’s so cute, I rewatch it again, but that’s exactly how I felt about the last twenty I’ve seen. I never had a pet, and I never imagined abirdcould look so…cuddly. It’s not a fluffy poodle, but they’re affectionate in the way they beep-bop their head and perk up at the camera. I imagine they’re looking at the guy beside me, and I understand the little twinkle in their eye.
He makes me just as happy.
I slide into another video, the small bird bounces on a National Geographic magazine, nearing an outstretched hand.
Ben.I dizzy even seeing hisfingersappear on-screen. I’ve really fucking lost it, but there’s seriously no turning back now.
“Theodore again,” Ben tells me.
It ends too fast. Next video plays, and I inhale an audible breath. Someone must’ve recorded Ben because he’sfullyin the frame. In focus. He’s young, maybe twelve. Sitting on his bed. His luminous smile is on the little cockatiel perched on his shoulder. He lets out a melodic whistle, and the bird whistles right back, then nuzzles his head into Ben’s cheek.
Young Ben laughs. The bird chirps, then whistles so merrily, his little orange feet shifting just to be closer to the blue-eyed boy.
“Pip-Squeak,” Ben says beside me.
I swallow my emotion. “I didn’t know birds snuggled.”
“Yeah, they do.” He has a soft faraway smile, and I don’t want to fill him with grief since both birds are no longer alive.
