Henrietta holds the bird as loosely as we've held our vows. No, no, no, she holds it like a bird. Her palms are a cradle when only cages can protect. We know this now; but still, we disagree on what can be done. A smudge on the glass. Perfectly bird shaped. Here, look. You can see the splay of a wing. Closer: the feather. Closer: the vane. Closer: the barb. What a world that reveals our failures in such vivid detail!

Henrietta sits on her ass, legs split to either side, bent at the knees, feet pointing back toward the rear, toward the window. Mosaic tile beneath her stretches out like an apron. She's crying, of course. Wet eyes; like a fresh oil painting of a woman holding a dead bird. She offers me the carcass. It's still warm.

This is her boss' house. He loves the bird enough to pay his secretary to birdsit while he's on business. Me, I love free Scotch.

Maybe we can return the bird to the cage, pretend like nothing happened? Too obvious; too childish. Maybe a replacement can be purchased? Too late; he'll be home in the morning. Maybe she can say it flew away while she cleaned the cage? Something missing is better than something lost, yes? But what of the evidence? I suggest we eat the bird. Pluck feathers. Salt and pepper to taste. Turn the oven to three-hundred degrees. Set a timer for whenever.

While the bird bakes, we play a game. Henrietta locates a white wax candle from a cupboard. I hunt for matches, finding them, finally, in a bedside table.

The game is simple. The rules haven't changed since we were teens. Some things must stay static so we know who we are. We take turns. Lower and lower my hand falls above the fire. I flinch every time the flame licks my palm. Henrietta can leave it there all night. A bubbling bloating blister forms on her lifeline. This is a test of love. She always wins.

It's after midnight when we take the bird from the oven. My hands are surgeon's hands as I hold the knife. I think, Whose hands are these? as I press blade into breast. These are my hands.

Henrietta holds an ice cube. It melts between her fingers, takes the shape of a tiny fist inside her tiny fist. A heart looks like a fist. The fist looks like the heart. The things we hold are a part of us until we can't hold them any longer.

I split the bird in two from chin to belly. I crack rib cage. With thumb and pinky, I tweezer out the bird's heart. It's shriveled from the heat. I place one half of the bird on my plate, the other on Henrietta's. We sit by candlelight. We pour white wine though we both prefer red. We raise our glasses and clink them so hard that they shatter—broken glass floats in the wine like ice floes. We drink it, shards and all.

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