Canaries

[subtlynice]

The artificial birds she produces are yellow in colour, their chirps and tweets cutting through the stale air like swords.

A few days ago, their song had been beautiful.  She’d been the only one in the class with the ability to produce them, and their elegant yellowy feathers had shined.

Now, in the aftermath of their most explosive row yet, the birds seem dull and lacklustre.

She considers confronting him.  Whacking him round the head or cursing him to the high heavens.

But she does neither.

She sits on the desk, fighting back tears, with only the birds for comfort.