The Avian Accessory

Agnes considered the pigeon perched atop Bartholomew’s head. It wasn’t a particularly large pigeon, nor was Bartholomew’s head particularly small, yet the combination struck her as… notable. Bartholomew, for his part, seemed oblivious, engrossed in a particularly dense financial newspaper. A small, contented cooing sound emanated from above his ear.

The barista, a young man named Kevin who harbored ambitions of becoming a performance artist, leaned over. "Sir," he began, then hesitated. "You have… a bird."

Bartholomew lowered his paper, peering over the top of his spectacles. "Indeed," he rumbled, without looking up. "Quite common in urban environments, I find."

"On your head, sir," Kevin clarified, eyes wide with a mixture of alarm and suppressed amusement.

Bartholomew reached a hand up, felt around, and then pulled it back with a sigh. "Ah. So it is. Rather inconvenient, given the impending rain. One hopes it has sufficient insulation." He then raised his paper again, resuming his perusal of commodity futures, the pigeon now subtly adjusting its weight, perhaps seeking a better view of the Dow Jones.

Agnes, sipping her lukewarm chamomile, merely offered, "Adds a certain rustic charm, don't you think?" She then turned a page of her own book, a treatise on the existential ennui of houseplants. The cafe, for a moment, held its breath, waiting for the punchline that never quite arrived, only the gentle rustle of newsprint and the soft flap of a pigeon's wings as it finally decided Bartholomew's financial acumen wasn't worth the effort.