SO SORRY

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.

On Tuesday afternoon a stringy drizzle sets in. Everything smells of damp soil and shoots. She worries, checks her dormant phone, but the pigeon is still there when she leaves work, its egg a pearl. She drives home, holding an umbrella out of the window, over the nest.

On Wednesday a man gets out of his car at a traffic light to shout at her. But when he sees the pigeon nest he throws up his hands, shakes his inflamed head and backs off.

On Thursday, optimism has her buying a bag of birdseed.

She is doing 20 on Friday, when her phone vibrates. It is a message from him, the first this week. Only the opening words are showing and they go right through her. She grabs the phone. A moment’s distraction. When she looks up, the light at the intersection is red. She brakes. The nest hurtles towards the tarmac in a perfect arc.