The Bird and the Worm

I didn't know what crazy was until I met Curtis. I knew he was a junkie when we began dating. Dating isn't the right word, I guess; he flirted with me at a party, we went back to his motel room, and the next morning I was his. I didn't care that others probably thought of me as another groupie and our relationship wouldn't last. His thick Scottish accent, sky blue eyes, and baby face made my heart melt. And goddammit, we were happy.

"I wrote a song for you," Curtis says now. His gutteral words are muffled slightly by the five inches of glass separating us.

"Another one?" More than anything I want to sweep that lock of hair out of his eyes. He needs a haircut. A grin etches its way on to his face.

"You're a fantastic muse, what can I say?" he winks. Much softer, he says, "I called it 'the Bird and the Worm.'"

I'm taken aback for a second. "Am I the bird here?" My real name is Bridgett. Curtis thought that was a mouthful, though, and nicknamed me Birdie.

He nods once. "Once I'm out of here, I'll play it for you," a pink twinge creeps across his cheeks. "That's if you'd still want to hear it, of course."

My heart aches for him. My stupid, stupid Curtis. I know I should hate him, or at the least be disgusted. Had Curtis been sober, this never would have happened. Had someone not swapped the coke, Curtis would be free and that guy would still have his face. The question, why? has haunted me the past several weeks.

"Of course I want to hear it, Curtis," I place my palm against the glass. He places his own against mine. "I told you I'd wait, didn't I?"

At this, he smiles. It occurs to me right there that Curtis isn't the worm because I swooped out of nowhere and stole him, as he liked to say. It's because he considers himself the scum of the earth, something disgusting. A coward. "You'd wait three to five years, Bird?"

"I'll wait as long as it takes, Curtis."