The Bird-Dexterity: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tHiPQpUv2c0
She began to rouse out of her ritualistic high as the record player's needle, having already moved into the furthest orb of the B side to her Charlie "Bird" Parker anthology, lifted its beak from the vinyl. She then gave Frank, whom she always took for a real furtive peeper, the look, "darling, do you sometimes think a saxophone is really just a siren meditating from within a gold sarcophagus?"
Frank turned his head to meet her eyes. He imagined an ocean tide falling back, crawling back to its mother and revealing glistening artifacts of earlier motion. And what evidence did the water in her eyes hold? She seemed to pull him in closer with each breath she took. He looked and saw fragments pointing back to prehistoric nebulae caving in and exploding in starlight cadence, luminescent jellyfish stranded by ocean tide. She hummed along to the velvet improvisations and he wondered. There was not one reflection, but always an infinite number.
A stack of jazzy travel fiction lay tilted, ready to tip over onto the floor. With one struck match, the sprawl would give into burning devastation, and these were the depths he wanted to explore.
"Well, as you know, " she tossed out leisurely into the morning air in her usual, privileged laugh while cutting into her poached egg with a new, cold, and calculative manner of a mathematician, "all we ever do is plan total social destruction on these…unsuspecting targets."
She pointed down to the floor in the shadows of the travel fiction to a photograph of a young woman. Frank looked down at her face.
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