The Sunday Scaries
Volume I, Number 6
Microfiction by Pat Harrigan
Content Warning: Language and Horror

A Task for Goldenrod

As soon as Marco left, she rose from bed and walked to the window. She unshrouded the birdcage, and Goldenrod woke with a chirp. She took him from his cage and placed him on her shoulder. She opened the window. Goldie knew what to do: he fluttered outside and followed Marco down the sidewalk.
          She took a bath, leaving the bathroom door open. Before long Goldie returned, landing lightly on her shoulder. She cocked her head.
          He has money, Goldie whispered. He’s not a golddigger. He has a big loft in Tribeca. No wife that I could see, but of course a man like that has girlfriends.
          I’m not worried about girlfriends, she told him, stroking his feathers.
          The next day, Goldie’s report on Andrew was less auspicious: Divorced, I think. Long Island address. He stopped at a diner and ate alone. She frowned. Andrew had been promising, and he had such a smile, but she had a lifestyle to maintain. She could perhaps mold him a little, prod him this way and that, push him into shape. But that was tedious work—maybe better to stick with Marco or one of the others.
          She sent Goldie out to spy on Bertram, and Marco again, and a new fellow named Francis whom she’d met at 21, who had a sweet smile but uninterpretable eyes. Goldie took a long time with this last one, and she paced in front of the open window for hours, worrying and waiting. When the bird finally returned after midnight it looked done in: feathers grimy, muscles trembling.
          She took Goldie to her breast, placing him under her robe to warm his chilly body. Soon he calmed, her strong heartbeat relaxing him. He peeked his head up to look her in the face. He seemed to want to tell her something, but a shudder ran through him and he shook his beak from side to side. She wouldn’t press him on it.
          Men! he chirped. I don’t know what you see in them.
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