(Continued from The Night Before Andrew Left)
Hotel. Andrew sprawls on top of the bed. Naked, stretching his arms and legs like a poorly broken egg, surrounded by the sea of blanket whites. Sun sizzles through the shitty blinds and the blankets get whiter. Andrew flips himself under, to avoid the light.
Lucy's not there, she's in a different country, a different time zone, she's walking with the horizon's old sun in her eyes. The familiar footpath to the post office, in her hand a slip of paper that says she has a parcel to collect. There's a relaxed pigeon in the gutter ahead, soaking up the last bit of sun after a big day. As Lucy approaches, the pigeon, let's call him Steve, Steve freaks out, starts walking away. Freaks out a bit more, starts running. Shits itself and flies into the air. Swoops around and flies straight for Lucy. Lucy flinches first and the pigeon claps with delight into the distance.
Andrew jolts out of bed, like he's been burnt and his day begins. Shower, slow, like a carwash, he stays still and everything seems to happen outside of him. The rest of the day is like that. He's in the car, he takes his hands off the wheel and he is guided through.
Lucy sits in the park, holding a shitty tin whistle. She's pretty happy with herself. Blows on it a little too hard and it screeches loud across the park. A dog gets mad and thinks violent thoughts. Lucy's oblivious, happy and foot-tapping like some sort of medieval folkie, it's sickening to watch.
Steve, stands in a circle of friends (and some passers-by who have stopped) beside the fountain and recounts his recent interaction. There is cheering at his victory and a general insurrectionary outrage among most pigeons there. Their day in the sun will come.