a suitor spurned
I met him at a party.
I told him he was sweet, but not my type.
It wasn’t exactly a lie.
It’s not like I threw the glass of wine he bought me in his face for asking or anything.
I tried to be nice about it.
But now, whenever I go outside, flocks of birds follow me.
Even statues of birds turn their heads to watch with vacant stares as I pass by.
It’s like being in a Hitchcock movie.
I’m not sure if they’ll lose interest eventually or if they’re just waiting for the right moment to swoop down and peck my eyes out.
I wish someone had told me who he was before I turned him down.
About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.