Read this Original Short Story About Living with the World’s Most Intrusive Parrot – Oprah Mag

Author Lorrie Moore once said, A short story is a love affair, a novel is a marriage. With Sunday Shorts, OprahMag.com invites you to join our own love affair with short fiction by reading original stories from some of our favorite writers.

Kristen Arnett's stories reside in the sweet spot between the morbid and the mordantly funny.

Her New York Times bestselling debut novel, last year's Mostly Dead Things (out next week in paperback via Tin House Books), centers on the daughter of a taxidermist who inherits her father's business when he dies by suicide. Bereavement is surreal, and Arnett's fiction offsets profound loss with moments of levity. (Her gin-dry humor is no surprise for those who follow her on Twitter)

"Birds Surrendered and Rehomed," her story for OprahMag.com, tells the story of two relationshipsone past, one presentthrough the protagonist's relationship with her pet parrot, which she adopted with a former lover. It's a story that's queer in all the senses of that word, a compellingly peculiar tale of what we hold on to when loved ones leave us.

They hadn't planned to leave the bedroom window open, not all night, but the humidity in the house was like being smothered under a wet wool blanket. There were only a few inches from the bottom of the pane to the painted sill, barely enough room for a stale breeze to leak inside. Into the bedroom spilled neighborhood sounds and a plague of mosquitoes. The bugs landed and left raised red welts on their skin.

Idling car engines and cicada buzz riled the parrot, an African grey that passably mimicked human voice. The bird, Paloma, got irritable when their routine was disrupted and especially didnt like hearing noises at bedtime.

Fuck me, Miranda! it squawked. Please fuck me!

Shut up, Paloma. It was the fourth time Sidney said it that night and shed likely have to say it again. Ill put the blanket over your cage, I swear to God.

The AC broke that afternoon, buzzing loudly and perfuming the air with a thick, burnt aroma. Something about a cracked belt, according to the repairman, who said hed have to order replacement parts.

Sidney rolled to her side, her back toward the wall. She watched Eliana fan herself with her shirt. Can you imagine living here fifty years ago? People must have sweat off half their body weight. Florida. Its miserable.

I cant sleep, Eliana said. My feet are actually boiling. She whipped her legs out from under the thin sheet, the motion like kicking through a wave. It billowed and settled, hanging half off the bed and dragging on the floor. She stood up abruptly. We should have stayed at a hotel.

Please, dont open the window any wider. Itll only make it worse. Sidney drank from a sweaty glass of water that left a coppery taste at the back of her tongue. When she looked at it under the light, there were flakes suspended in the liquid, floating around like sea monkeys. We need to buy a new filter thingy for the water jug.

Eliana leaned into the opening of the window, lifting her shirt and fanning herself again. I gotta open it more. Just for a little while. She pushed at the pane, cranked it a couple inches higher. Im roasting.

Youll have to get back up and close it in a minute. I dont wanna get robbed tonight because you needed stagnant cholera air.

Fine. Its not like Im gonna sleep anyway.

Sidney sighed and closed her eyes.

I don't care, Im too hot, Eliana said. If anything touches me, Ill scream. She switched off the light and climbed back into bed. She yanked at the sheet, gripping wads of it in her fists and twisting. I feel like I want to hit something.

Well, dont.

I didnt say I was going to, just that I feel like it.

Overhead the ancient fan spun on the second highest speed, slow enough it wouldnt rattle the blades. Paloma scraped twice at the bars of her cage, and then jangled the bell rope that hung in its corner.

Please fuck me, Miranda! Please fuck me!

Paloma! Ill get the blanket. Sidney knew she wouldnt. It was too hot to put something over the parrots cage, even if the bird was being a pain in the ass.

Its disgusting in here. And the fans still too loud. Eliana opened her nightstand drawer and dug around inside. Im putting in ear plugs.

Get me some, too.

They lay parallel to each other, limbs radiating damp heat that forced them to opposite sides of the mattress. Sidney curled over toward the wall, pressing her cheek to the plaster. It was marginally cooler than her body. She fell asleep like that, neck kinked like she was hugging a boulder. The window stayed as it was.

Thered been problems with the parrot from the beginning. It groomed itself obsessively, plucking feathers until crusty patches dotted its wings. It hid rotted hunks of fruit under the furniture, attracting ants and roaches. Often the bird got angry and threw its seeds on the floor. If you walked through the bedroom in bare feet, you might wind up with a sunflower seed lodged between your toes.

The bird wasnt her idea. Sidney acquired him with her former partner, a woman named Miranda who was sixteen years her senior. Miranda had a short, gray bob and wore oversized sunglasses. Her wardrobe looked like a funeral service worker, so much black that she never had to worry about anything matching. She taught Humanities at the University and wrote a book about Pompeii that made it to the very bottom of the bestseller list.

Theirs was an unconventional relationship, but it worked. Sidney liked the stability of it, the domesticity of their routines. They bought a house together in an up-and-coming neighborhood, spent six months traveling Portugal, and then acquired the parrot.

It was a natural progression, according to Miranda, whod never been married and didnt want kids. Sidney wasnt so sure. Shed only ever owned a beta fish, a tiny scarlet-colored thing named Mister Charlie. Hed lived his short existence in algae and muck, trapped in a bowl stuffed in the corner of her childhood bedroom. Half the time she forgot he existed.

Youll like a parrot, Miranda had said, theyre very intelligent. She flipped open the newspaper to show Sidney the ad, circled in green pen, cattycorner to the crossword puzzle they always did together over scrambled eggs. Baby African Greys, a grand apiece. Certified. Ill take care of it. You wont have to do a thing.

Only if we get a boy, said Sidney. She had read an article in the New York Times that said female birds were more aggressive than males. I dont want it biting my finger off because it gets pissy.

Miranda agreed. They went together to get the bird, a forty-minute drive during which Sidney pondered the logistics of buying a pet that would likely outlive them.

There'd been problems with the parrot from the beginning.

The breeders house was a glorified mobile home scented with mildew and cedar chips. Its shaggy yellow carpet held feather fragments and bits of birdseed. Cages sat on every available surface, stuffed with a variety of chattering, skittish birds. Rainbow-colored wings lit loose animals from perch to perch. Surplus bags of pellets lay stacked up in front of the bathroom.

Miranda held a parrot up for inspection. Though a baby, it appeared wizened and ancient, eyes cloudy and dripping clear liquid.

It looks like an old man, Sidney said. She poked at the birds neck which was wrinkled as a crone. One foot in the grave.

The grave, the bird repeated, and Sidney hurriedly drew back her finger.

Hes taken with you, the breeder said, nodding solemnly. She was wearing a cream-colored turtleneck and a greenish-gold patterned vest. Sidney thought she looked like a kindergarten teacher.

Isnt he a darling? Miranda asked. Im calling him Palomo. She let the baby sit close to her, holding him tenderly against her chest. Inevitably he shit, and pale liquid dripped down the fabric of her blouse.

Itll wash out with cold water. The breeder gestured to herself, pointing to some bleached out spots over her breasts. Ive been pooped on so many times that I hardly even notice it anymore.

Thats comforting. Sidney dug a wet wipe out of her purse. She dabbed at the spot while Miranda pulled out her checkbook. The breeder fetched a small shoebox for them to take the bird home in.

Though Sidney objected, theyd installed the parrot in their bedroom. Miranda claimed it was the best place to keep a bird, and Sidney felt weird arguing over it when she knew absolutely nothing about their care. The cage was vintage, bought at an estate sale a wrought iron monstrosity that Miranda painted creamy white. They installed perches on the walls in the living room and in the kitchen; there was even a peg over the stove top. This gave Sidney visions of the bird shitting in all of their food; shed had a recurring fantasy that the parrot fell into their deep fryer and finally died, boiling up golden-brown like a piece of Kentucky Fried Chicken.

Despite their problems with the bird, theyd been happy. Theyd filed for a domestic partnership and evenly split their bills. They hadnt needed children because theyd had the bird, which Miranda treated like a spoiled infant. Then Miranda keeled over during her morning run. Two blocks away from their house; fifty-six and dead of a massive heart attack. The mortgage and the parrot became Sidneys responsibility.

After Miranda died, the bird wouldnt shut up. She heard Palomo-as-Miranda calling for her day and night. In the middle of doing laundry, she heard her dead partners voice calling for her from the other room and shed followed it, looking for a ghost.

Baby, can you please pick up your shoes? You always leave them in the middle of the floor and I trip over them.

It was Mirandas voice, but it wasnt her. The bird stared at her impassively from its cage. Sidney sat down on the rug with her basket of dirty clothes and wept.

But it wasnt all bad. There was the parrot, murmuring sweetheart in that 1940s detective voice Miranda had always used when they were joking around. It sometimes stung, to hear the voice and no longer see the face, but it was still strangely comforting. Even if her partner was gone, the echo of her remained.

Yet, the worst was that the bird could perfectly imitate the sounds that Sidney made when she and Miranda made love. Grunts, groans. Streams of outrageous obscenities; jesus and god and sucks and fucks and deeper and wet. Long, lust-filled moans that made the hair on Sidneys neck stand up.

Just like that, the bird crooned, staring hard at Sidney with his beady black and yellow eyes. Ooh, right there. Put your fingers there. Oh baby. Oh yes.

The more upset Sidney got at the sex sounds, the louder and more frequent they became. The shrieks of pleasure were mortifyingly loud. Terrified the neighbors might overhear and think she was a nymphomaniac, she confined the bird to the bedroom. Palomo cooed and begged, made wet, sloppy sounds that sounded like someone plunging their fingers into a watermelon. She contemplated giving the bird away. Thought about it a lot. Even placed an ad in the paper, but she became paranoid that whoever bought him would hear her most intimate secrets. That someone else would know how she sounded when Miranda had her fingers in her, or the grunts she made when bent over the back of the couch. Strangers would hear the weird, high-pitched animal squeak she made when Mirandas tongue touched her at the perfect angle.

It sometimes stung, to hear the voice and no longer see the face, but it was still strangely comforting.

It went on like that for months. Then one morning, after the bird turned ten and shed been without her partner for almost a year, shed gone to clean out his cage and found a small, object the size of a ping pong ball lodged in the shredded newspaper that lined the bottom of the tray.

Sidney let it roll around in the cup of her palm a fragile, tiny thing that weighed less than a packing peanut. Their bird had laid an egg. Their male bird had laid an egg. Palomo had suddenly become Paloma, crossing the gender border without any consideration for Sidneys feelings on the matter.

She called the breeder, enraged. How can you do this to people? Why didnt you know?

Jesus Christ, it was ten years ago. The woman sounded bored, but also entertained. Also, its very hard to tell with birds when theyre that young. Their genitals are pea-sized. What does matter? Its not like shell get pregnant.

You have to take it back, Sidney said, staring at the egg, perfectly formed and improbable. I cant do this.

The woman laughed. I dont even keep those things any more. I breed Weimaraners.

Sidney hung up and set the egg down on the desk beside the cage. She poked it; let it roll back and forth. The parrot reached forward through the cage door and nipped her. Sidney screamed and yanked her hand away, a bloody chunk missing from her pointer finger. The bird darted past, flying wildly around the house while she ran to the bathroom and poured peroxide over her injured hand. She prayed she wouldnt get an infection.

Oh fuck me, Miranda! Please fuck me!

Go fuck yourself, she yelled. She came back with a towel wrapped around her fist and smashed the egg with one of the shoes shed left out on the rug. It left little bits of enameled yolk on the heel.

Sidney met Eliana at a local yoga studio. She wasnt trying to get healthy the problem was her gut. Always tidily packed beneath her clothes, increasing age and a lot of pumpkin cheesecake had made it swell. The bulge popped over the lip of her pants and wouldnt go away. Then a coupon for the studio arrived in her email, offering one free introductory session. It was only a few blocks from her house, walking distance.

She bought the standard startup kit: mat, tight pants, and a little black top that hugged her breasts. She put her hair up in a tiny ponytail that flicked around her face when she rolled her neck. Eliana placed her mat to Sidneys right. Their eyes met in the mirror. They stared hard at each other and didnt look away.

Eliana was eight years younger than Sidney and had more muscle mass in one arm than Sidney had in her whole body. Eliana liked listening to folk music and drove an aqua blue scooter. Her dark hair was cut very short, and bleached white at the temples, which reminded Sidney a little of a horned owl. After the first and only yoga class Sidney ever attended, Eliana offered to come over and make dinner. They ate smoked salmon and lemon risotto in the eat-in kitchen and then had sex on the terrazzo floor next to the table.

Im really glad I decided to mop yesterday, Sidney said, staring under the fridge. I think I see some Cheetos down there.

Grab me a few.

They lay there in a jumbled heap, sweaty skin cooling off into discomfort, and thats when Sidney heard it. The parrot, grunting and screaming. High pitched squeals banging off the ten-foot ceiling in the bedroom. Sidneys own voice, moaning at porn-star levels.

What the hell? Is someone else here? Eliana sat up and reached under the table for her shirt. She held it to her chest in an attempt to cover herself. Are you married?

Its my parrot.

Im not an idiot. Thats a person.

Sidney put her hand over her eyes and tried to ignore Paloma, who was plaintively calling for Miranda imitating a tone that Sidney truly hated; one where she sounded breathy enough to need a respirator. Seriously. I can show you.

The noises got louder as they walked through the house. Sidneys pulse was beating in her ears.

That sounds like you. Eliana stopped in the doorway and turned to look at Sidney. It sounds exactly like you.

Sidney turned on the bedroom lights and walked to the cage, still covered with its bright blue velvet sheet. She yanked it off as the orgasmic noises reached their crescendo, a long wail of ecstasy that plateaued into Mirandas name.

See? Just a bird.

Orgasm over, Paloma hopped back onto her perch and gnawed at her seed bowl. Eliana held her hand out toward the cage.

I wouldnt. Shes a little temperamental.

Oh. Eliana peered between the bars. Kinda cute, but loud.

Sidney pulled on some shorts from her dresser. Not really that cute.

Not for you, I guess.

Eliana picked up some jewelry left out on the vanity, then sniffed at a bottle of open perfume. Sidney saw the space with new eyes: dust coating the fan blades and the screen of the television, mounds of used tissues crumpled on the nightstand. An empty Chips Ahoy container sat next to the door, half opened, discarded carelessly once shed wolfed down the last cookie. Shed been alone for so long that shed stopped seeing the space as anything other than a place to wallow every night.

Eliana picked up a nightgown, an old one with a high, lacy neck made out of very sturdy cotton. Angela Lansbury live here?

It was my exs. Sometimes I wear it.

Huh. Flopping backward, Eliana rolled until she lay diagonally across the mattress. This a craftmatic adjustable bed?

Shut up.

Im serious. Could be fun. Reaching for Sidney, she grabbed at the hem of her sleep shorts.

Behind them, Paloma squawked and dug at her seed bowl, throwing a mouthful onto the floor. The seeds rained down, spraying everywhere.

Touch me, the parrot crooned. Please fuck me.

Let me cover the bird. Sidney held up the blue velvet sheet. Shell calm down a little.

Eliana tugged at the shorts again, and they slipped further down Sidneys waist. Leave it off. Its kind of hot, dont you think? All the moaning.

They left the lights on. Pressed together on the bed, Sidney couldnt tell which parts were her and which were Eliana. It felt different, but good. They sweat and they kicked, the sheets wrapping around their legs, the bird howling and panting and muttering oh my god, oh my god. Sidney kept her eyes on Paloma, who had climbed to the top of her cage to bang at the bars. Hearing herself wasnt embarrassing; it was suddenly intensely erotic.

Sidney shook and swore, climaxing, it seemed, at the same time as Paloma. The voice in the room, echoed over Sidneys own, was like an aria. She had never heard such beautiful music.

Eliana moved in and they shared everything, just like it had been with Miranda. Just like before, except it wasnt. Eliana was young. She wanted to go out to crummy bars and drink whole bottles of five-dollar wine. She and her yoga friends camped in a tent and consumed hallucinogenic mushrooms, writing down the experiences in their journaling workshop. When Eliana cleaned the house, she put lemon Pledge on the furniture instead of Murphys Oil Soap. This is the only good way to clean wood, Miranda always said, rubbing her special cloth across the spotless surfaces of all the antiques. Shed been so careful, so precise. In comparison, Eliana was a ball of frantic energy. The differences were hard to ignore.

Paloma tolerated the changes in her usual fashion: she shit on all the furniture, ruining the fabric. They had to buy slipcovers, washable ones made out of cotton. There were places in the house where the parrot wouldnt let Eliana trespass the nook where Miranda had paid their bills, a window seat where Sidney and Miranda liked to cuddle on the weekends and drink coffee. If Paloma found her there, shed swoop down and snatch bits of Elianas hair. There were tiny bald patches on Eliana scalp. She started wearing a hat inside.

Sidney left Paloma in the cage for longer stretches of time. This further aggravated the bird, which led to more outbursts: boxes of cereal dumped from the top of the fridge, throw pillows gouged open and destroyed. Birdseed scattered all over the house. Sidney found it in the washing machine and even inside her shoes.

Gone were the sweet words of Miranda, the niceties theyd shared with each other over breakfast or in front of the television. There was only Sidneys voice calling from Palomas beak. Always begging, a kind of hurt in the tone, like an ache that couldnt be dulled.

Cant we get rid of it? Eliana bought a white noise machine to drown out the worst of the yelling, but that barely covered it most days. Wouldnt a friend take it?

I dont know anyone whod want her.

What about a bird sanctuary? Theres the Audubon Society. They take all kinds of birds, right? Even freakshows like Paloma.

Oh sure, let me give my climaxing parrot to a place frequented by elementary school children. Thatll go over real well.

They stood in the kitchen, the furthest place from the bedroom. Sidney was eating cereal over the sink, staring out the window at the crepe myrtle tree that Miranda had planted. It was suddenly in bloom and there were white bits falling all over the yard, like snowy dandruff.

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Read this Original Short Story About Living with the World's Most Intrusive Parrot - Oprah Mag