Bird Watching

You don’t want to do this. Not really. You knew this would probably happen when it all started but you weren’t prepared for it. You push your trepidation away and get out of the car (yours now, since your wife wants nothing to do with you) and make your way slowly to your parents’ house. After you knock, you stand there staring at a large flower pot full of violently purple flowers, trying to sort out how you’ll explain it all to them.

You know they’ll side with her. They love her, almost more than you, and they’ll be so angry with you for what you’ve done. Your heart speeds. What you’ve done...you’ve ruined your wife’s dreams, your mother’s hope for grandchildren, and your father’s faith you in, even if the last two don’t know yet.

The door opens and your mother smiles as wide as she possibly can. “Desmond! What a nice surprise! Please, come in!” She backs up a step and sweeps her arm out.

You want to turn around and run. You step inside with a forced smile and and give her a jerky hug. “Hi momma.”

She hugs you back tightly then holds you at arms length. Her dark eyes, your eyes, flick all over your face, just long enough for you to feel uncomfortable, then she notices you’re alone. “Where’s Selene?” she asks. Selene...your wife. Your soon-to-be-ex wife.

You stare at her for a few moments then whisper, “I think dad should come into the living room. We...we should all talk.”

She moves quickly, getting your father out of the den and into the living room in record time then placing herself in her chair while he sits on the couch. You take the rocking chair, simply because it’s closest to the door.

"Well? Your mother says you got something that needs to be said.” Ah, your father, forever tactful.

"Selene and I are getting divorced.” Just like ripping a band-aid off or shoving a bone back into place. Faster is better.

They stare at you with wide open mouths. You ready yourself to flee.

"What?” your mother finally forces out. “How?!”

You lick your lips and look at your hands. “Um...it all started about six months ago...”

-----

You’re not supposed to be here. Your wife wants to have your cousin’s birthday party the coming weekend and everything, she says, needs your approval. But you can’t stop yourself. You lift your binoculars again.

You first gaze at a fluttering red bird across the park. You watch it for a few moments, admiring the deep crimson under its wings, then deem yourself safe and turn the binoculars to your real targets.

You first look at legs. You admire the exposed skin that some show despite the cooling weather, watching muscle move beneath every skin tone under the sun. It’s amazingly erotic in its own way. You move to torsos. You examine the flutter of cloth against stomachs or chests, the way colors compliment or contrast skin, the tightness or looseness, the fabrics. You lick your lips and move to arms. They’re your favorite part. The tightening of the biceps or forearms as they move and pick things up or put them down. As they swing with the gait of the person walking or they move across chests to fold together. Or perhaps when someone jogs. The joggers pump their arms almost as much as their legs, tighten release, tighten release.

Absently, you look at faces but they’re not as enticing as the bodies. There’s a multitude of hair colors and eye colors, makeup and facial hair, high cheekbones or dimples or long eyelashes. But you can only look at a face for so long before you get bored.

You suppose this is because of your obsession with them when you were younger. You would stand in front of a mirror and twist your features into every imaginable expression that popped into your mind and note how it made your eyes narrow or widen or your mouth pucker or thin. It used to be the way you’d spend your afternoons after school. Then you hit the age of 17 and your attention was drawn to bodies.