This is a published flashstory, entitled The Egret, written by Jason Fox. I voiced and produced and audio version of this piece.
Middle Aged (35-54)
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
I'm 50 miles south on one oh one trimmings from your shaved head, itching my neck when an egret swoops down low, several cars ahead of me, traffic is light but oppressive. The birds, long legs, probe the air over eight lanes of fast cars. Don't land here, bird, I yell from inside my car. Your trimmings chafes my clavicle and I wish I had had sharper clippers. It took so long to do your entire head, even though the hair was already falling out in clumps. I ran my hand over each nuclear patch, your broad back inches from my chest. The egret gains a few reassuring feet and I imagine it navigating back to the nearby wetlands, slinking its feet into the cool wet mud. My phone lights up and a picture of your face fills the screen. It's from a year ago, your skin taut and tan instead of slack and pale, your cheeks full not gaunt your eyes saying love, not sleep. Then the egret descends and circles toward the other side of the interstate. I craned my neck at 80 mph to see if it's safe, but I'm moving too fast. I lose sight of it completely