We Don’t Talk to Tim
Walt brought home a rooster today. He just brought it home, carrying it under his arm, all red-feathery with its dinosaur feet.
“Oh God,” said Linda from the table. “Oh God, Walt, take it away.” She lit a cigarette. “Birds make me shudder.”
Walt put the rooster on the table in front of Linda, set it down on its dinosaur feet. Cluck, it said. Linda shuddered and blew smoke at the rooster. “Oh God, Walt, I simply can’t handle a bird.” Linda was dressed head-to-toe in black. Linda is usually in anguish.
Walt said, “It’s a fine-looking rooster, it is.” It was a fine-looking rooster. “It is,” I said. We stood by the table and admired the red-feathery rooster. Linda shuddered.