III: Frida

That afternoon, Frida quickly lost interest in the Reverend who was pressed to a wall on Pitcher’s Lane, and turned back to the birds on the telephone wires. She was a tabby who lived with the Parsons on Kimberley Road and what she enjoyed most about the birds was the wind through their down feathers when they lifted their wings. She caught one on Boxing Day and never forgot its shoulder bones, knotted and splintering under her teeth, or the unexpectedly sour juices left behind in her claws. Frida was hurt that the flailing thing died so shortly after being caught.