Sylvia, my lover, owns an African Yellow Parrot that she named Shirley Jones. Shirley Jones sits on her shoulder or head singing songs from the musical Carousel. When I come over one night a week, she gets locked in her cage, which is so big that it sits on the floor and houses 6 trees, innumerable shrubs, 4 trapeze swings, a sandbox, a chest full of toys and numerous bird baths and drinking bowls, so big she can fly around in it almost from floor to ceiling and one end of the place to the other. “Quite a set up,” I say to Sylvia, annoyed with the arrangement. We retreat to a bedroom and a bed that can barely fit one person. When we begin making love, Shirley Jones does a mock version of Sylvia having an orgasm. Her mock orgasm grows louder and louder until we give up and I’m pushed up against the wall while Sylvia curls up on the edge of the bed. “Get rid of the bird,” I say. She looks at me as if I’m crazy. “Do you know how difficult it was for me to find Shirley Jones. She’s a rare bird, worth a fortune. And you?” “But we can never fuck in peace,” I say, but I’m thinking or fuck at all. “Give her time,” she says. “She’ll get used to you, and then everything’ll be okay.” We go out to the kitchen and pop some popcorn and sit down on the couch to enjoy it, while Shirley Jones sings “If I Loved you” in her prettiest voice.