“What’s this? I ask him
“Box,” he says confidently in his croaky little voice.
“Close enough. What color?”
“Red.”
“What’s it made of?”
He nudges it with his beak, then gives it a bite.
“Metal.”
“Good job, Hermes,” I croon as I give him his pistachio. I go to his flock mate’s cage and open it. Daisy is my gorgeous sun conure who is much quieter and more low maintenance than her brother. She still knows basic commands, though. The oranges, golds, yellows, and greens of her feathers are so vivid and remind me of a sunrise over a meadow. Looking at her gives me instant serotonin.
“Daisy, come!” She flies gracefully to my finger I’m holding out, and I press the clicker immediately before offering her a pistachio, too.
“Very nice, pretty Daisy.”
She makes the cutest, singsong chirp that rings out like the peel of a bell.
“Pretty Daisy,” Hermes affirms from my shoulder.
Birds were always around when I was growingup, so it felt natural to get them when I decided I wanted pets. They were cherished by my dad, he spent so much time training them and taking care of them. We had budgies, quaker parrots, and a macaw that brought color and life to our house. I know they reminded him of our mother, although he hasn’t had any in years.
“Beautiful, cheerful, flighty, and not always meant for cages. Just like her,” he would say wistfully as he watched them. Maybe he’s let go, and now I’m the one clinging to some piece of her. Wayne can’t stand pet birds, but I went the opposite way, as siblings tend to do. Hermes and Daisy ground me and make great company. They’re reminders of happiness in my childhood, spending time with my dad and his birds.
After we play a little more, I put fresh liners in their cages and give them dinner, refreshing their waters while they eat. In the bathroom, I turn on the sink to a gentle, warm stream and offer them both baths if they want them. Daisy hops in and splashes around to get the food off her beak. Hermes does the same, though he likes getting a mist bath outside better most of the time. With everything situated, we hang out together while I watch a movie before bed. They both sit right on me and let me give them head scratches, relishing in the attention since today was a longer day at the bar.
Barely a half hour passes before I’m nodding off, so I get Hermes and Daisy situated for the night, putting partial covers on their cages to give them better rest, before I wash up. Exhaustion drags through me as I take a quick shower to wash off the bar, throw on a fresh tee and boxer briefs, and collapse into my beloved bamboo sheets in my king bed. My last conscious, random thought is that my bed feels particularly lonely tonight.
The loneliness is not even about sex, it’s the absence of having someone to hold, and cherishing the sound of their breathing. It’s rare that I allow myself that level of intimacy, because I’ve learned going down that path leads to crippling heartbreak. I manage to clear my mind enough to fall asleep, and dream of an exotic bird with flaming red feathers and stormy grey eyes.
Chapter 2
Celeste
I swipe my hand over my apron before I grab the paid check from one of my tables, the receipt sticking to the slightly wet red tabletop. Glancing at the signed receipt, I grimace. Barely a 2% tip, with a note that I should smile more. Thanks, cheapskates, I’ll keep that in mind. Slipping it into my pocket, I keep moving with my coffee carafe, filling or freshening up cups for whoever needs it with a smile plastered on my face now. Smiling is the last thing I feel up to doing at this moment, though. Shooting pain sears through my lower abdomen, and it takes everything to not double over.
My periods have always been painful, but ever since my recent stint in the women’s correctional facility, it’s been so much worse. I’m in pain even when I’m not on my period sometimes. I told the nurse at the infirmary there, and she was convinced I have endometriosis. Stress can cause it to flare up, and I’d say being in prison is stressful. The over-the-counter pain meds she gave me helped, but not completely. I can’t keep popping them forever. It’s one more thing to put on the list of shit I need to take care of butprobably can’t afford, since I currently don’t have health insurance. Which is why I’ll put up with shitty tips, sore feet, and constantly smelling like grease until I can fully get back on my feet.
The diner is not a bad place to work, I really enjoy it most of the time. The place itself is clean and adorably vintage looking. The red tables are surrounded by black stools and chairs on a black and white checkered floor. There’s a long red counter with black stools to just sit and maybe have coffee with our famous pie. My coworkers and boss are all nice, and there has been zero judgement about the legal trouble I was in recently. About a month ago, I was released from the women’s correctional facility after a retrial found my charge and sentence should be lowered to only doing community service and anger management classes.
I obviously had to disclose all of that to my boss to explain my lack of work history for the four months I was incarcerated, and that I needed to work my shifts around the classes and community service. I got really lucky. It would have been much harder to get a job if my charge hadn’t been reduced from the original bullshit felony conviction I received of aggravated assault.
The clatter of a fork dropping to the floor near me startles me out of my thoughts, and not a moment too soon. I need to focus on my tables, the food for one of them is ready. The BLT on wheat and pastrami on rye for the two older guys at a high top in my section smell so good as I bring them over. Some women crave chocolate when they’re on their periods, I crave greasy goodness. I’m counting the minutes until my break since I didn’t have much breakfast and I’m starving. When I place their food on the table, the guy with the BLT looks at me and smiles.
“Thank you so much, gorgeous,” he says as I feel his hand come up to pat my butt. My vision tunnels, and the din around me becomes a static white noise. I jerk away from him, trying to keep my breathing and heart rate from going out of control.
“Don’t touch me,” I bite out.
He rolls his eyes.
“It was just a thank you pat, don’t get your panties in a bunch.”
Then he notices how my breathing has become a little erratic.
“Jesus, what the fuck is wrong with you?”
