The Avian Perch Incident
Arthur, a man whose emotional range was often described as 'a very slight ripple on an otherwise placid pond,' was waiting for the 7:17. It was, as usual, 7:19. A pigeon, clearly a creature of impulse rather than punctuality, landed squarely on his head. It wasn't a casual perch; it was a deliberate, two-footed thud.
Arthur didn't flinch. He didn't gasp. He didn't even blink with undue haste. He merely tilted his head slightly, as one might when assessing a particularly stubborn stain on a shirt.
"Well," he observed aloud to the empty bus stop, his voice a low monotone, "this is inconvenient."
The pigeon, perhaps sensing a lack of suitable reaction or simply finding the view less exciting than anticipated, remained. It seemed to be considering the merits of Arthur's thinning hair as a suitable nesting site.
"I have a meeting at eight," Arthur continued, addressing the pigeon directly this time, though without altering his vocal inflection. "And while I appreciate your entrepreneurial spirit in seeking new vantage points, my employer prefers me to arrive unencumbered by local fauna."
A woman across the street, walking her terrier, paused, openly staring. Arthur, however, was focused on the matter at hand.
"Furthermore," he added, pulling a small, pristine handkerchief from his pocket, "I believe there are bylaws regarding the use of public thoroughfares, or in this case, public persons, as private bird-stands. One must consider the precedent."
The pigeon cooed softly, a sound that Arthur interpreted as either agreement or a request for millet. He sighed, a barely audible expulsion of air. "Very well. Let's not make a scene. I shall simply adjust my trajectory." With the utmost care, as if disarming a delicate bomb, Arthur slowly raised his hand, not to shoo the bird, but to gently prod it.
The bus finally arrived. The pigeon, with a final, indifferent flutter, took to the air, leaving behind a small, off-white souvenir. Arthur glanced at it, then at the arriving bus. He wiped his head with the handkerchief.
"Honestly," he muttered, stepping onto the bus, "some creatures have no respect for personal space or the urban infrastructure." He found a seat, pristine as always, and settled in, ready to contemplate the day's next logical conundrum.