09-10-2026, 12:34 PM
The Duck
Fridays are worthless so I duck into ALDI
for one of those snacks with the tiny salami.
In the herding zone, someone touches my shoulder:
a medium man, modest in height, tepid vibes, wearing
nothing too spectacular. In his hand flashes a bright
something golden and small: I like your tattoos. Do you
want this duck?
Of course I accept. What else could I do? I dropped
my new friend in my purse, tapped the square, and
promptly forgot him completely.
That night my favorite was live on TV. She killed it, but
nobody laughed. I felt aggravated by proxy. I woke
in the weird hour well after midnight, when the sky
looks like bad reception and half the house becomes
slanted. I wanted some water in a glass. In the kitchen,
music was playing without a detectable source: Dolly
Parton & Kenny Rogers, "Islands in the Stream." A shadow
fell over the stove. It was the duck.
He was perched on the ceiling fan's blade and the fan
was turned on, but lower than normal, so that the duck
rotated slowly around the room's axis, orange beak
glowing like plastic persimmon, impossibly black eyes
melting back into the dark. He didn't make any sound
when he spoke my name, but a sweet, sickly feeling rose
up in my chest anyway at the touch of his voice. I slept
without dreams.
That morning after the last of the storm shuffled off, the knives
were all laid out bare on the floor, scattered around me like
leaves. One by one I bent to pick them up. I was very
careful, but somehow in the process, my hand started
bleeding. I looked at the duck—who was hunched in the
corner now, leaning against the crown molding—with
visible accusation. Why did you come down from up
there? You’re scaring me, I said. Explain yourself. The duck
didn’t blink: You could hurt someone, he said.
Fridays are worthless so I duck into ALDI
for one of those snacks with the tiny salami.
In the herding zone, someone touches my shoulder:
a medium man, modest in height, tepid vibes, wearing
nothing too spectacular. In his hand flashes a bright
something golden and small: I like your tattoos. Do you
want this duck?
Of course I accept. What else could I do? I dropped
my new friend in my purse, tapped the square, and
promptly forgot him completely.
That night my favorite was live on TV. She killed it, but
nobody laughed. I felt aggravated by proxy. I woke
in the weird hour well after midnight, when the sky
looks like bad reception and half the house becomes
slanted. I wanted some water in a glass. In the kitchen,
music was playing without a detectable source: Dolly
Parton & Kenny Rogers, "Islands in the Stream." A shadow
fell over the stove. It was the duck.
He was perched on the ceiling fan's blade and the fan
was turned on, but lower than normal, so that the duck
rotated slowly around the room's axis, orange beak
glowing like plastic persimmon, impossibly black eyes
melting back into the dark. He didn't make any sound
when he spoke my name, but a sweet, sickly feeling rose
up in my chest anyway at the touch of his voice. I slept
without dreams.
That morning after the last of the storm shuffled off, the knives
were all laid out bare on the floor, scattered around me like
leaves. One by one I bent to pick them up. I was very
careful, but somehow in the process, my hand started
bleeding. I looked at the duck—who was hunched in the
corner now, leaning against the crown molding—with
visible accusation. Why did you come down from up
there? You’re scaring me, I said. Explain yourself. The duck
didn’t blink: You could hurt someone, he said.
