don't love a wild thing

it was 5.00 a.m. when he woke up to the situation. Even asleep, he knew it wasn't natural for him to feel feathers against his skin when he pulled her closer into his arms. He was pretty sure he was still dreaming when he opened his eyes to her wings and that was why he didn't scream immediately. Even barely awake he didn't want to embarass himself when he was with her by screaming just because he had a bad dream.

Slowly however, he realised that no amount of trying to wake up was making the wings disappear from her shoulders. He had always noticed the way her shoulder blades poked into his chest when he hugged her, it was one of the things he knew about her body that he didn't think others did. It dawned on him that he actually was awake and that the feathers were protruding in some shape or form from her body and that was when he got out of bed quickly. And as he stumbled out of bed, he woke her up.

She blinked at first and then looked confused as she realised that he was looking at her strangely. Like he was scared of a whole lot of things, simultaneously. She tried to turn and once she found out she couldn't like she did always, in bed, she sat up. She seemed to slowly feel her own back and the burden weighing her shoulders down. She tried to think of another time when her body had confused her by changing overnight and she thought back to her adolescence. It all made perfect sense to her, now. This, her body had done before. Of course she had grown wings. It probably meant she could fly and as she looked out of the window into the rising sun, she rose to test out her theory about flying. She opened the window and sat on its ledge, like it was the most natural thing to do and then, her eyes clouded in concentration as she tried to move her muscles and flutter her wings. She heard him yell and scream in fear as she pushed herself off the ledge and then she was off.

He could think of many, many reasons to be angry about and to curse at. He was angry with himself for being a coward and for being the one to wake her up. He was angry with every poet or writer on earth who had compared women to angels and butterflies. Clearly, those idiots had no idea. He was suddenly disturbed by the recollection that she liked to sleep naked on most nights and he couldn't remember what she was wearing when she flew away. Then he was angered by the fact that it shouldn't matter to him anymore. She had literally left and he had been unable to stop her. He had no idea if she would even return and he found it all funny, suddenly.

He willed himself to get a drink of water and then he pushed himself to sleep on the living room couch. He didn't really know when he had fallen asleep but when he woke up, she was straddled across his back, her face pressed against his shoulder, her leg weighing his thigh down. He was about to leap out of her touch, when he remembered what had happened the last time he had done that. He tenuously felt for her arms around him and saw with relief that the hem of her nightshirt was pulling at her knee. He wished he could reach over and see if her wings were still there. He didn't want to take chances with waking her again, though. So he decided to wait it out and listen to the sound of her breathing as she lay asleep and within his reach.

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ps: a dedication to you.