The Happy little Duck… asked me whether I prefer to love or leave turkey.

It was good at the start. She had those feathers; the wattle. There was something about her joggling walk and burbling voice that made me go weak at the knees.

She'd been one hell of a beautiful turkey.

But once we were together, things… Well, things just started downhill. It started with her suspicion that I was dating another bird.

"Been with that duck again?" she'd accuse; cigarette hanging off the shelf of her bottom beak.

Inspecting my collar for down.

Her suspicion grew to paranoia, and I began to avoid coming home. I started to drink, lost myself in seedy magazines, with images of naked turkeys, all dressed up in their prim white socks and very little else.

Juicy, crisp skin; succulence within.

But then I would get home, bleary-eyed and remorseful, and there she would be; all cynical, easy tears and paranoid fantasies.

"You've been with the duck!" No longer a question, now a statement of fact.

"I haven't," I'd yell, "I haven't!"

"You don't love me any more, not like you used to."

Her easy turkey tears; images of roasted, naked flesh flashing through my drunken mind. Sharp knives lie ready, smiling in the kitchen.

But even then, my conscience wouldn't let me.

"I used to love you," I said, "but I can't any more. I just can't."

And with that, I grabbed my coat and left the turkey behind.

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