Imagine, if you will, you’re out late one night.
The sun has long since set and you’re walking home from work. It’s been a long night, you’re tired, weary of the world and everyone in it, and you’d just like to go home, grab a quick bite, and then seek the sweet release of sleep. That’s it, that’s all.
The streets are quiet, few other people on them at such a time, and the evening fog has come in. You turn the corner and all but bump into someone. It’s a little old lady, her face sketched with a hint of something unsettling, her eyes alight with a manic hatred. The expression is so alien that you take a step back, away, instinctively looking down at her hands for the stereotypical butcher knife you expect to be there.
She’s not holding a knife. Instead, she’s holding the limp body of a dead pigeon, the fingers of both hands wrapped tightly around its neck, buried in its feathers. And for some reason that’s worse.
“I strangled it,” she says, looking up at you, the tips of her lips flickering up into a hesitant smile like a child who has had their first taste of candy and discovered that it’s sweet and good.
What would you say to that? What would you say to her?
Apparently, the only thing you can say is “Ok.”