The Sorrows of Young Werewolf (eyeteeth) wrote,
The Sorrows of Young Werewolf
eyeteeth

Clutch

You know it is spring in New York City when the starlings' beaks turn from black to yellow, and the pigeon cocks start doing their weird mating dance in earnest, sometimes two or three to a hen, each trying to prove to her that he has the widest tail-span and the purplest throat. Others can be seen flailing about with unwieldy twigs in their beaks, planning accommodations for two white eggs. Squirrels look temporarily shabby as their winter fur falls away. Blossoms like clusters of popcorn explode on the trees that grow in the middle of Broadway, and tulips -- red, orange, purple, and white -- appear in the parks and underneath the trees on the sidewalk, their sudden color like a punch in the eye. Little new leaves appear on every branch; their thick green scent fills the air, mingling with car exhaust and the smell of sun-warmed concrete.

In spring the Greater Eyeteeth sheds its voluminous wool coat and fedora and dons the black leather jacket it stole from Isaac. As the weather gets warmer it zips out the Thinsulate lining and eventually dispenses with the jacket altogether, retaining only those beat-up purple-tinted sunglasses it bought on the street for ten bucks. By the time the year's first squirrel pups are old enough to frolic on the grass underneath the park benches the Greater Eyeteeth will have begun displaying its possibly regrettable hairiness in various pairs of shorts, among which a bright orange pair is particularly offensive to the eye.

In spring my heart swells with the joy and activity and furious struggle of all living things, it swells until it aches and each ache lets me know just how long it's been since I had a boyfriend. (I wanted to say "lover," but let's face it, that sounds pretentious.) Each ache says: I should not be sitting on this park bench by myself. I should not be drinking this cup of coffee by myself. I should have someone to touch and be nice to. In response, my heart says: Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.

Where is my mate?

Total word count (revised): 14,994
Tags: new york, sex, urban wildlife
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