She's wondering why I have these wings. I can see it in her eye. I try to call to her over the roaring of the engine, "you know I didn't ask for them, right?"
"What?" she asks. I watch her mouth moving, forming words without sound.
"My wings. I mean my wings. Did you know I didn't ask for them? I just came this way. It kind of just happened like this. No one asked me beforehand what I wanted to be like." I'm screaming so loud my throat hurts. She's looking at me like she doesn't understand what I am saying, but I continue anyway. "I really would have liked to be asked. I think if it was up to me I would be a fish. Not like a regular fish, a fish with legs made for jumping, like cat legs. No, kangaroo legs. A swimmy fish with shiny scales and kangaroo legs perfect for leaping huge distances. Wouldn't that be the number one?"
Her shade of brown compliments the green of the grass in the most pleasing way. I stop talking to take a good look at her. Her beauty is comforting. Staring at the curves and textures sends chills up my spine. I can feel it all the way to my pecker, sharp and beaky. I want her to know I admire her. I know she can't hear me so I dance instead. I hop and skip and flap all the way up and down this great branch. I pick up the pace and really start to feel it. I can sense her eye on me and I know she can feel it too; the accelerated heart rate, the tensing of muscles.
"I'd also want to sing," I shout to her.
"What?" she asks again. The droning overpowers all other sounds.
"If I would have been asked what I wanted to be like I would have been a singer. Not like pretty songs in a beautiful soprano voice. I mean like frog bass. I want to pump that bass line while I dance around in my swimmer's bod and my jumpy legs." I think about the chicks that will want to cluck at me and my new hot dancing and I feel really good. I can see her seeing me. She knows I feel good, and it makes her feel good about feeling good too. I dance some more. I want to add the bass line, but all I can get out is a fast, high-pitched arpeggio. The engine changes gear. The constant moaning turns into a rhythmic duh-duh-duh-duh-dooooo. I dance in time with it, squeaking my arpeggio over top. I can feel my heart starting to adjust its tempo to match.
I am singing. I am dancing. I am feeling real good. I look over at her, laying in the green grass with her brown body, and I love her. I love this girl because she loves the way I dance, and then I watch the lawnmower run over the snake with one eye. I dance to forget.
