Anne Dorrian

She does not leave his house until Monday morning, giddy and lovebitten, by which time a pigeon has built a nest on the roof of her car and laid an egg in it. The roof is tacky with honeydew and strewn with petals. When she unlocks the car, the pigeon tilts its head, its lentil eyes anxious. She opens the door and inches her way into the seat. She starts the engine, drives in first gear. Cars beep behind her. She glides to work without using the brakes. The pigeon is still there, the egg snug. That evening, the journey home takes an hour. She is trailed by angry drivers.