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“Ha!” I crow, victorious as I shut the cage door behind her. Then, aggressively, I show her both my middle fingers, “Fuck you!”

She’s too busy eating to care much.

I collapse on the barstool beside the counter, feeling way too tired, and strongly reconsidering my stance on the caging of little birds.

But not really.

Picking up the cage, I make a decision. “Hey,” I ask her, “you wanna see something cool?”

She cocks her head in my direction, trilling out a low, “Suck my balls.”

I nod solemnly. “It’s a date.”

I bringher up to the belfry at the perfect time.

It’s half past seven, so the sun is still an orange glow in the distant sky, painting the little wisps of clouds with reds, magentas, and golds. Violent colors. But the city is already alive with its ground-stars, lights blinking on along the avenue, in high-rises and headlights, speckling the landscape with its exciting cosmos pinpricks. It’s the best of both worlds, this little patch of day-dusk.

I set the cage down next to me and produce the joint I’ve been saving for the perfect evening. This isnotthe perfect evening because my Vinny isn’t here. But I’ve still got a sad, little bird, and it makes my chest ache for her in a way I’m not expecting.

“Sorry I can’t let you out,” I say, flicking the flame on my lighter. “If you were my little bird, I’d set you free and hope you came back. But your little fuckhead Prince would probably stab me again, eh?”

When I turn, I see Effie staring out over the city with wide, black eyes. Her head is jerking from side to side, like she’s struggling to take it all in as fast as possible. A gentle gust of wind arrives, stealing the tendril of smoke I exhale, and I’m startled to watch her extend her wings.

The feathers on her underside flutter in the breeze.

“Sunlight,” she trills.

“Not much of it, I’m afraid.” I take a draw from the joint, watching her closely. She has an odd teal about her all of a sudden, completely different from the fuchsia she exhibiteddownstairs. It’s as if it took seeing the sky for her to understand what she is. For her to be at peace. Quietly, I muse, “It must be pretty cool to be a bird. To never fall, only glide.” I follow her gaze to the skyscape, watching as a flock of geese drift by in the distance. “Well, I guess it sucks if you’re always in a cage.”

There’s a long moment of silence, which I use to puff on the joint.

Until she croons, “Effie loves Pace.”

I give her an affronted look. “I wasn’t making any moves. I’ve already got a little bird, and to be honest, she’s a lot less complicated than you.” Huffing, I concede, “You’re a cute little fucker, though.”

She agrees, “Little fucker.”

“Cutelittle fucker.”

She cocks her head in my direction, and I get an eerie feeling that she’s analyzing me. “Little fucker.”

“Cute,” I stress.

Maybe it’s the weed, or maybe it’s justher, but she looks me in the eye and I get the impression that this little bird has too big a soul. It’s the same feeling I get with Archie sometimes, like there are corners of his destiny I’m just not qualified to quantify.

For a brief second, I think about freeing her, despite the fact it’s not my right.

And then she spreads her wings again, cooing, “Cute little fucker.”

I give the cage a pat. “That’s a girl.”

A bird like Effie couldn’t make it in these bleak Forsyth skies. She needs sunlight and voices and the bluest of blues.

And only her Prince can give them to her.

“Watch this,”I press the rewind button and restart the TV. On the screen, two fighters circle one another, jabbing and ducking punches, until one kicks out, leg and foot arcing through the air. It lands, foot slamming into his opponent, knocking him back three feet. “That’s an epic roundhouse kick. See how clean it is?”

Effie’s on the back of the couch, marker cap in her beak.