Two days after I move in, the egg hatches. The next day, the mother pigeon flies into the closed window and dies. The day after that, I come home from work to an oddly jubilant Ben. Oddly jubilant, even for him. “You’ve got to see this.” He says. And opens up the window.
The baby pigeon looks to be in sorry shape. Its eyes are open and empty. Its mouth is open. It looks completely dead, except for the rise and fall of its chest. “Doesn’t it look like it’s still alive?” Ben asks.
“It is.” I reply. “Look at its chest.”
“That’s what I’m trying to show you.” He says. “Those are maggots moving around under its skin.”
I shudder. “That doesn’t gross you out?”
“Not at all.” And he sits back down at his computer.
I walk over to him, put my hand over the top his head and start wriggling my fingers through his hair. “It doesn’t even freak you out now, when there are maggots crawling in your hair?”
He brushes my hand away. “The only thing about that sensation that creeps me out, is that it's your hands that are causing it.”