Alex argues with Nick on our way to the park, it’s Sunday morning, and I should feel good, because on Sunday we meet and we take walks, just the three of us, three old friends who have nothing but each other, and it’s sunny and warm, wildflowers grow through the cement on sidewalks, before we enter the park, where wildflowers bloom all over, and the trees have shiny new green leaves, they’re not empty and colorless like in winter, but I don’t feel good, because Alex doesn’t look happy and Nick doesn’t look happy either, I ask for the name of a tree, Alex says it’s a Judas tree, and he stares at Nick like he’s the traitor, Nick doesn’t say much, he speaks of ducks, and Alex says something about ducks too, then they don’t talk at all, except in brief bursts, if one of them says something the other one says no, and I walk in the middle, crooning to Sunday Morning, pretending we’re a band, but they don’t notice, and Alex gives Nick his wallet, like he no longer wants it, Nick takes it and pays for three ice creams, and Alex looks away, like he doesn’t want to be here, or like he enjoys the scenery except our company bothers him, and they talk for a while, but things soon heat up, but they don’t listen when I ask them to stop, Nick throws his ice cream at Alex, and Alex catches it mid-air, then hurls it into the pond, where a few ducks swim in a neat row, he throws the wallet too, and all this duck talk has exhausted me, but they don’t hear me when I speak and I ask them to stop ducking around, they don’t listen when I sing that I’m falling, like I suffer from a torn friendship hangover, and I stand still for a while, only then do they see me, my skin tightens and itches, my joints shrink and they snap into new shapes, and I flap my wings, dive into the pond, and I float, I go quack, quack, and they stare like they care, but they don’t give a duck about me or each other, all this duck talk has transformed me, and I look like a duck and quack like a duck, and it’s nice in the waters, it is safe with the ducks, and the ice creams and the wallet, because ducks don’t give a duck when they’re angry, ducks just float and they swim with their friends.
Mileva Anastasiadou’s work has appeared in HAD, X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine, JAKE, BULL, and The Gorko Gazette. She is the author of the short story collections We Fade With Time and Christmas People. She serves as an editor at Blood+Honey and The Argyle.