Summary:

A rather large heron waded in the water, its backside mottled in tiger-stripes, tapering at a black head. The bird’s beak struck the water with natural, violent efficiency, its yolk-yellow throat elongated as it gobbled down minnows. The ladies whispered amongst themselves, scrambling for their iPhones stuffed inside their pockets. Shane, meanwhile, had gone to stand behind the cover of a leafy green plant, positioned perfectly so as not to spook the bird, with a perfect window for a gorgeous photograph. “That’s a good camera,” the guide commented, watching Shane with the admiring eye of a fellow birder. Ilya was preening. A preening fucking peacock. He didn’t care if the metaphor was cheesy; he felt like one. He felt like one of those crazy-looking birds from the documentaries Shane liked to watch, birds-of-paradise, with ruffled rumps, faces like parade masks, prostrating themselves in the treetops for love. (Or, Ilya takes his birding husband on a birding honeymoon.)