Grand Avenue
My wife and I were jogging, like we do every morning. Down Mission,
left
at Trader Joe's, then up Grand Avenue and past the stately houses we
will
never be able to afford. We'd just turned the corner by Senor Fish,
scattering
a flock of pigeons strutting their stuff. One of them took off
late, veered
right into the path of a silver Lexus, then lay against the curb
beating his
one good wing like he was trying to put out a fire. My wife asked
me to, for
God's sake, do something, so I turned the delicate head clockwise
until I
heard a click. Then darkness poured out of the small safe of his
body. That
is when I realized I used to merely love my wife. Now I would kill
for her.