15th day of summer. Jazz club. Deep beneath the streets. A network of cool brick tunnels connecting alveoli of smooth tunes. The jukebox breathes and bleeds through each room. Two pigeons are enjoying mojitos.

“These mojitos are delicious.” Says Pigeon 1.

“I’ve had better.” Says Pigeon 2.

“I’m Paula…” says Pigeon 1, as she extends a wing and knocks over Pigeon 2’s three-quarters full mojito. Mint goes everywhere. Paula is mortified. “I am so sorry!” frets Paula. Pigeon 2 wipes the rum off her breast.

“It’s okay, Paula.” Pigeon 2 reassures her.