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The woman, Lilith, continued to stare with a mixture of what appeared to be awe and disgust.
“That would be me. Man-eater extraordinaire. You gotta husband?”
“No,” she said rather harshly.
“Too bad. I like them young, in a committed relationship, and with a below-average intellect. If you had a husband, I’ve no doubt he would’ve fit the bill, perfectly.”
“Oh my Gawd. You’re as awful as they say.”
Why was she doing this? She wasn’t that person anymore. But finding herself in her old digs, it was as if she was possessed, her body taken over by the ghost of Wayward past. A ghost that was angry, spiteful, and irrevocably damaged.
Birdie stuck her lip out in an exaggerated pout. “Does that mean you’re not going to invite me to your knitting club where we drink mock-tails and share our romantic encounters with each other?”
“You’re… offensive.”
Birdie passed her on the stair steps. “Here’s a tip, Lilith, don’t ever allow anyone to offend you.”
She made her way down the steps until she reached the bottom level, waiting for the highly offended Lilith to pave the way to the council meeting.
Having never visited the city building for any reason that wasn’t in some way punishable by law, Birdie didn’t know the way.
Lilith marched past her with her chin in the air and dripping of condescension. Ruffles fluttered around her like little white flags waving in the wind.
Lilith made her way to a large double door. “He’s in here. Just go on in and he’ll be with you shortly.”
Lilith opened the door with a smirk, and Birdie scooted past her as if her hair wasn’t a rat’s nest and her shoes emitting flatulent noises.
Marching into the room she dug in her purse, looking for her phone, with a swagger only Birdie Wellborn could master. Her phone having eluded her, and suddenly, she felt a tickle on the back of her neck. She looked up to what had to have been fifty sets of eyes turned toward her.
Her being a blatant interruption.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, this session is closed to the public.”
That voice. It was him.
Standing on some makeshift stage behind a podium with a row of men and women sitting in chairs beside him, and what looked to be thirty of the local townspeople simultaneously giving her side-eye.
From the right side of the room, she heard a distinct Southern accent that sparked the memory from her past of a hyper-critical Erma Jeffries, asking, “Lord help us, is that who I think it is?”
From the other side of the room, a voice she couldn’t quite recall but with a similar accent said with a fair amount of condescension, “The nerve of that no good…”
Then, everyone was talking at once, making it impossible for her to make out the names and faces, but familiar nonetheless.
In an instant, she felt falsely accused and presumed guilty without the consideration of a fair trial. How was it that with just a few steps into this room, she instantly reverted back to her high school self, feeling shamed and discounted.
Aborting her mission, anxiety bubbling through her chest, she quickly turned and scooted her way back out the double doors, her shoes farting along the way.
Pulling the knob behind her and noticing the “Private Session” sign affixed to the door, she leaned against it, holding on to the door handle in case someone decided to bolt their way through and corner her in the hallway.
Panting, she came to the conclusion that the quicker she scooped up her recalcitrant daughter, the better. Preferably, before the villagers gathered their torches and clubs and hunted her down like a villain in a cartoon.
It was then she noticed Lilith standing in front of her with arms crossed and look of pure disdain on her face.
“Here’s a tip, Birdie Wellborn. Don’t go where you’re not wanted.”
With that pearl of wisdom, Lilith turned on her heel and made her way back to her lair.
Birdie straightened, readjusting her purse strap over her shoulder. “That went well.”
