LITR 3731: Creative Writing
Student Fiction Submission 2003

Will Frith

Pilot Fish

I saw a bird fly into glass.  His neck seemed to twist around more than it should have.  There was no life left in the poor thing.  It was brown with spots of white on its belly.

I sipped my coffee and stared at the bird for what seemed to have been hours when Erin arrived.  Head nods were exchanged and I smiled faintly.

“You look like someone tore your heart out,” she murmured.  She smelled like flowers.

“Look,” I pointed to the ground outside.

“Ouch, that must’ve hurt,” she mused, “what are you reading?”

“Feast, Hemmingway,” I replied.

“Loved it, where are you right now?” she asked.

“Skiing in the Alps.  I was almost done until ‘thud!’ then this bird is on the sidewalk, poor thing.”  I was staring at the bird again when Erin cleared her throat and opened her menu.  I placed my book into my bag and then looked at the menu.  I had chicken.

After dinner, Erin had other obligations and had to leave.  I stayed at the table, looking at the bird.  I began thinking about my past with Erin, about how we had always laughed at people, things, and memories of school, about the times when we would almost fall in love and laugh it off as soon as we both realized it.  She is married now and seems happy.  I was happy being alone.

“Hello.” Someone took it upon themselves to interrupt my solitude.  “Are you going to be here for a while?  The café’s full.”  She filled my coffee again.

“Actually, do you mind if I do?” I asked.  “I have plans to finish a book I’ve been reading.  I shouldn’t be more than another half-hour.”  She smiled and turned to walk away.  I noticed a small run in her hose and a stain on her shirt.

I looked around to the people at the other tables, making up stories about each one for a second before moving to the next.  The woman to my left seemed pensive.  Perhaps she was unhappy with her dinner date who was more interested in looking at the person in the booth behind her than contributing to the conversation she was desperately seeking.  The little boys next to them were the epitome of anarchy.  Their parents were unconcerned with the effect that they were having on the people around them.  Mom was smiling at them, sipping her drink, as they crawled around on the floor, barking like dogs.  Dad was eyeing them with a glare, but probably felt too powerless by now to stop anything.  The hostess seemed a bit perturbed by the barking and cut through Mom’s head with her eyes.

“Thomas?” Another interruption.  She seemed timid.

“Yes.  Do I know you?”

“Hi, I’m Karen.  Your name is on your notebook.  I was wondering if anyone was sitting here.”

“Oh, no, you can take the chair if you like.” She sat down and opened her menu.

“Thanks.”

I nodded and looked at the words on the page.  I supposed that even if she did interrupt my “reading” I wouldn’t mind.

“I really didn’t want to stand there all day waiting for a table, and, I saw you here by yourself, and, well, I have some reading to do, so I won’t bother you at all.” Her smile seemed friendly enough, and her timidity seemed to hide an intriguing mind.  She was pretty, too.  Not that being pretty is important.  It just made her very easy to admire.  While she peered through the menu, I looked at her belongings—blazer, satchel, pencil in the loose bun on her head, glasses, chewed-short fingernails, notebook.  Her wiry arms led to thin, blue-veined hands and long, bony fingers.  She closed her menu.

“This place is pretty expensive,” she said.  I nodded my head and noticed her brown eyes looking back at me.  “I guess I’ll have a salad.”  Her timing was perfect, as the waitress was making her rounds again.

“More coffee?” she bumped my mug with the carafe as she poured.  She turned to Karen, lifting her right eyebrow.  Karen ordered coffee and salad, dressing on the side. The waitress turned, heading for the counter.

I watched as Karen opened her satchel and pulled out a book of poetry.  She began reading something from the middle pages of the book and caught me looking.  “You read much poetry?” she asked.

“Sure.  I had to read quite a bit in school.  I’ve also tried my hand at being a poet, but I was just never satisfied with anything I wrote.” I had just opened the forum for discussing our past lives.  Skiing in the Alps could wait.

“I guess I’m in that stage right now.  I figure that any aspiring poet has to read as much poetry as she possibly can.  You have a favorite?” she asked.

“Well, I have a few preferences, but I like a lot of poets,” I was searching for names, “Coleridge, Wordsworth, Yeats…umm.”

“They’re all very good.  You like any modern writers?”

“To tell you the truth, there’s so much out there that I just stick to classics, unless someone recommends something good.  I’m open to anything.”

Her eyes gave the impression that she was pleased with my answers.  The waitress came back with Karen’s order, refilling coffee for people as she made her way back to the counter.  As Karen picked at her salad, she carried on the conversation.  “What’s your favorite Coleridge poem?”

“I guess it has to be ‘Rime of the Ancient Mariner.’ I’m always referring to the albatross around the mariner’s neck.  It’s a great metaphor.  I like Keats, too.  ‘Nightingale’ is good.  Yeats is my favorite, though.  I like ‘Leda and the Swan.’”

“Look at that bird on the sidewalk!  Did you see it?” My answers must have bored her.

“Yes, he just flew into the glass while I was sitting here.  I was sad for him for a while, but I guess I forgot about it.”

“We have to do something.”

“It’s been there, inanimate, for over an hour.  I think it’s dead.”

“We should bury him before he just gets thrown into the trash.” We got up from our table and walked outside.  I noticed the waitress staring at us as Karen deliberated proper burial. “How about next to that tree?”

“I didn’t bring my shovel,” I joked.

“I’ll get my silverware.” She came back with a knife, spoon, and napkin.

After the bird was buried, we stared at the grave for a while, silent.  I thought about Erin for a moment and wondered whether she was happy or not, and if she would ever be.  Karen’s eyes were on the grave when she put her hand on mine.  Suddenly, she grabbed my arm and tilted her head toward my shoulder as she led us back inside.