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My shoulders sag. “Really? When we could take the bike? I could ride on the handlebars.”
He shakes his head. “It’s not far. Eat your breakfast, and then put on some decent walking shoes. No flip-flops. And wear a hat.”
Minutes later, I’ve finished my breakfast and joined him outside in my leggings, tee shirt, and sneakers.
With a harrumph, he goes into his camping gear bag and pulls out a hat that a grandpa would wear while hunting.
“I look like an old man in this hat,” I say.
“Good. I won’t be tempted to tackle and rut you in the woods.”
“You’re no fun.”
“Let’s go.”
Whatever it was I thought we were doing today, literal birdwatching was not it.
When we arrive at a small clearing in the woods, Sigurd drops his pack on the ground, unzips it, and pulls out several small, rugged cases.
I watch as he sets up a telescope type of thing, attaches mirrors to it, and then takes out a weird little box.
“What is all this?”
“Bird counting equipment. That,” he says, pointing to the weird small box, “is a bird song meter. This,” he says, pointing to the oldest-looking tripod and camera I’ve ever seen, “is a camera.”
“I think my great-grandfather owned one like that.”
“It’s not that old. It’s digital.”
I never would have pegged him as a bird guy. I never gave birds a single thought until this moment. But it’s nice to sit here and listen. And watch. And watch, and watch some more.
It’s nice…but difficult to not distract him with kisses.
At one point, Sigurd sits perfectly still on a tree stump, and the birds literally come to him.
I’ve never seen anything like it.
The Wild Prince is fucking Snow White.
Even the birds love him. He’s Snow White with a beard and an attitude.
So wait, what does that make me? Grumpy Elf? Was there a clumsy elf?
No…no, definitely Horny Elf.
We spend all day out here, and he shows me how to operate the camera.
Later that day, while we’re lollygagging on the dock, his head in my lap, he looks through the photos I snapped on the camera.
“You’re an excellent photographer.”
“That’s what Suzanna says,” I say.
“Who’s Suzanna?”
“My housemate. She’s a poet, and she’s always trying to get Jakob and me to show our stuff at her friend’s galleries and things.”
“Wait, who’s Jakob?”
