“There, the Nikon Monarch, best in the market.” You mumble to me, brandishing the hunk of black with glinting lenses above your head. “Catch!” You command.
“Don’t thro—” I protest, a bit too late as my arms walk the dots of a mini-kerfuffle. It lands, heavy, in my hands and I look at you reproachfully for nearly damaging a fine-piece of equipment. Yes, you were my Conscience, but that was never a good excuse for maltreating a machine.
Your eyes never catch mine, they were far away, staring over sinew, muscle and tube.
“Them white doves never seem to be very good at roosting here, do they?” You say dismissively as you gnaw on a piece of dried cuttlefish. Strange, I didn’t know there was dried cuttlefish in a Godforsaken place as this. Still, I shrug, holding the pair of binoculars to my eyes and staring out.
I watch as the last ones shook flakes of dried blood off their feathers, preening fussily and pecking, harassed, at the heart that no longer beat properly before they stretched and flew out of my mouth. Gaped in a silent sob.
Them hopes never were good at staying in one place. Not least my heart.