Birdheart

It could have been worse, of course. She knew that. She tried hard to remember it. When she arrived at her desk, she had to sit for several minutes with her head down, waiting for the scratching at her ribcage to stop. During lunch, she couldn’t speak her order to the lady behind the counter; wings were buffeting her lungs. She lost the afternoon’s work when the sharp little beak jabbed her esophagus.

And on the ride home, she ran into him again. He smiled, as beautiful as ever, and she felt the feathers tickling the back of her throat.