Night had fallen over the city and the streetlamps cast their orange glow on the pale stone buildings that stood motionless and quiet with the heaviness of history gnawing at them. The streets were still crowded, possibly even more so since the heat of the day had eased and the smell of fish from the markets had faded into the dark.
Hidden by the shadows, perched on the handrail of a balcony, piercing the night with his unheard song, sat a blackbird. A peculiar gleam seeped out of his feathers; whether it was the lights down on the narrow street below that gave them a red tint or whether it was something inherent to who he was, it was impossible to tell. The blackbird tilted his head.
He remembered a time, long ago—another life, perhaps a dream—when he had walked over the cobblestone and sung with a human voice.
Through his worn-out shoes, he could feel the unevenness of the ground. The smell of food hung in the air and made his stomach rumble. He squeezed past a couple of tourists who studied the menu of one of the many restaurants, careful not to accidentally hit one of them with his guitar. He wasn’t entirely sure if he was being considerate or if he wanted to protect his guitar, as if it was a sacred object that would be desecrated at the slightest touch of another person.
Laughter drifted up to the balcony. Maybe twenty people had gathered around a table on the pavement outside one of the restaurants. Through their chatter, he could almost hear chairs scratching over the stone. The sound reverberated in his bones. He could feel the cold metal of the cutlery and the roughened surface of the napkins at the tips of his wings. And when he closed his eyes, he could almost taste the wine the party below was passing along the table; deep as the sea, warm as the sun, dry and slightly bitter as mountain dirt.
He watched the wine swirl in the glass carafe. To him, it had always seemed as if wine against glass obeyed its own laws of physics, its movements slowed down, tracing its container with an almost painful serenity. He tore his eyes away from it and lifted his gaze to the woman who sat opposite him. Her dark eyes were fixed on him, betraying no emotion. It was almost unsettling.
She pushed aside her plate, her caponata almost untouched. He focused on the pieces of aubergine cooked to the point of being indistinguishable from the tomatoes and capers that shared its fate. In his peripheral vision, he saw her raise her glass of wine.
“If you’re ready then…”
Below on the street, under the soft glow of the streetlamps on a warm summer’s night, the guests of the restaurant raised their glasses. Above, on a balcony, in the shadows, the blackbird spread his wings dripping red and took flight. While the last notes of his song still lingered, he disappeared into the dark. Unnoticed.
Written by Merle Emrich.
Cover photo by Ash Willson.