eighty-fifth night

a bird hits the window and i jump.

i'm in philadelphia now, city of brotherly love. a quiet diner, past midnight, a slice of apple pie and it almost feels like home.

but then a bird hits the window and i jump.

i look around to see if anyone saw my reaction, but they're all engrossed in other things. except for one. she looks like she's slightly older than me, with short blonde hair and grey eyes. sad eyes, i think. her clothing has strange pads on them.

she moves closer to me, then says, "do you flee them?"

"i'm sorry?"

"do you flee them?" she says. "the feathered fiends, lightning-hearted and hidden in a dark cloud?"

she didn't look crazy, but the things she said. and yet she was making sense in a way. the fiends - the feathered fiends, the bar-yuchnei.

"yes, i flee them," i say.

"as flies to the wanton boys," she says, "are we to the murder--they kill us for their sport." i know that phrase - it's shakespeare, king lear. the woman looks both sad and angry as she says it.

"i know," i say. it feels good to talk about it, even if we are using such archaic words.

that feeling of goodness evaporates, however, when the diner door opens, its bell ringing.

we both turn to see who enters and our faces fall in turn.

it's the mother and child.

edit: this post is croc's pov of our meeting.