Having spent all day hearing about cigars, lighters, sports, and Biden (an opinionated bloviant sitting outside, holding inanly forth), it was a relief to come home and hear about corpses. Fresh corpses. The fatty inner thighs of fresh juicy corpses. As fondly remembered by a very talkative juvenile turkey vulture, disappointed because I had not carved up a cadaver outside (he's convinced that our neighborhood must be just littered with them) and brought back the choicest bits for him to feast upon.
He is unclear about fit subjects for conversation while humans are eating dinner. Aortas, kidneys, livers, lungs, stomachs, pancreasses, brains. Spleens. Almost like a Scotsman repeating the recipe for a favourite dish. What I had for dinner was tofu, bacon, peppers.
Over Kwan Miao noodles. With green curry sauce. And Sriracha.
Inedible, by his standards. He ate a lot of it.
When I went out later for a tub of icecream, he had a request.
"Bring back a corpse! A tiny one is fine, that way you won't exhaust yourself, old man, but make sure it's plump!"
He's sure they're out there.
I just need to look.
Both my apartment mate and I share our food with him whenever we eat.
He had two helpings of icecream.
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