She always wore a feather in her hair, even on rainy days. The feather always varied with her outfit. Sometimes the feather appeared bright and bold like the cobalt blue feather she wore last Tuesday evening at a local fundraising event. At other times she chose a soft pink feather that gave her an added air of femininity- as if she needed more. For very special occasions she donned a peacock feather, and if she was melancholy she wore a feather that was long and thin and pitch black.
She certainly wore that black feather a lot lately. It seemed out of character for her, a delicate and soft creature, to wear this obtrusive protuberance multiple days in row, but in fact she had. He flipped back through the pages of his sketchbook and counted 11 of his little maquettes that included the depressing accessory. She cast him a sidelong glance, briefly looking up from her magazine.
“What are you looking at?” She asked him, in a slightly irritated tone, returning her eyes to her magazine.
“Why do you have to wear that awful black feather? It looks ridiculous.” He replied.
“I don’t care. I’m sad today.”
The conversation ended. He didn’t know what else to say. He wasn’t sure how to court her back to happiness. 11 days in a row. He couldn’t stand it one more minute. He got up from his seat and walked into the bedroom to her vanity that housed her expansive collection of feathers. A few moments later he emerged carrying a tiny green feather with yellow flecks. He walked back into the living room and offered her the feather.
“Get that away from me! And how dare you go through my things!”
“Please darling, I just can’t bear seeing you with that disgusting black horn!”
“I can’t help it if I’m sad.”
“But you’ve been this way for 11 days, it’s like you’re under a spell.” He paused, and then added, “Please? For me?”
She thought for a moment. Then sighed. “Maybe.” She answered. “Rock paper scissors.”