A Miami Morning
A young boy of twenty-five sat at an outdoor cafe alone and left in silence. Only a few of the elderly had stirred. He opens his book and proceeds to consume a croissant, an egg pastry, and an iced coffee, consuming each in rotating turn. Taking a bite, a bite, and a sip as he pretends to read.
A bird lands on the arm of the adjacent chair at the small table. The feathers appear oily and darker in patches. Neither boy or bird look at one another. By the given nature concerning the size of the young boy’s three consumables, a bit of the egg pastry is all that is left before long. The bird lingers, bouncing forward to stand on the edge of the bread basket containing the egg pastry. So as not to alert the bird, the young boy swings his arm around wide in a flash, catching the bird in his fist, gripping it tightly, turning, opening the lid of the adjacent trash bin with his free hand and throwing the bird roughly into the empty bin—the little body hitting the bottom with a concluding thud.