A friend and I went Flea Market shopping, and the first thing we saw was a robust taxidermy duck (I thought it was a goose, she insisted it was just a very big duck). She wanted it so badly, but decided to pass, thinking such a purchase would be irrational and conflict with her roommate’s wishes. As the day went on, I found countless trinkets, and she found nothing (except a growing impulse to reunite with the duck she left behind). So, at a nearby diner, we resolved to get our strawberry milkshakes to go, and drive back to get the duck. The not knowing if the duck would still be there built an incredible anticipation in us. Every red light at an intersection was impeding our chances at succeeding. We both focused on the horizon. The silence in the car, so incredibly loud, was occasionally cut by grand ideas of the fun to be had with the duck. By the time we had parked, she had given the duck a name, and I had planned to make it a tiny hat as a sort of celebration gift. We ran down the sidewalk, and as we peered into the bare vending space, we knew, Louie had flown the coop. Later that year, me and another friend bought her a fine replacement duck.