No one wants bird poop in their salad.
That's what Roseanne Park's girlfriend, Jennie, always said about the Little Bird, a quaint, outdoor café across from the ocean in Half Moon Bay. True enough, but it was still Roseanne's favorite restaurant. The place was surrounded by bird feeders that attracted calliope hummingbirds, goldfinches, and song sparrows. It was like dining with feathered friends, which were preferable to most humans.
Roseanne shifted in her seat and glanced around the café. It was like a million-watt spotlight beamed down, considering the table was right in the epicenter. That wasn't good when it came to tornados, earthquakes, or restaurant seating. Roseanne preferred out-of-the-way corner locations, anyplace where she could blend into the scenery like a chameleon. To take her mind off being center stage, she replayed the strange voice message she'd received from Jennie that morning.
First, it was odd she'd suggested they meet at the café for lunch, considering the bird-poop threat and the fact that it was Monday. Lunch was every Tuesday and Thursday, date nights Monday and Friday, and lovemaking Saturday night. This impromptu lunch would throw off their entire schedule, which was unheard of. And even weirder was that Jennie had ended by saying, in a terse tone, "We need to talk."
Normally, that'd mean Roseanne was about to get dumped, but she knew better. They fit together like peanut butter and chocolate. Roseanne's mouth watered. What she wouldn't give for a Reese's peanut-butter cup. Instead, she slipped a straw into her mouth and gulped down unsweetened, watered-down tea, which was a sad substitute.
There was only one thing this unscheduled lunch could be about: D-Day. Two years ago, Roseanne had made a promise to her parents and Jennie, and now it was payback time. She'd racked her brain all morning trying to come up with an excuse to postpone the inevitable, but she had nothing. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and reveled in the lullaby of a sparrow: three short, clear notes followed by a buzz and ending in a trill. If anything could calm her nerves, it was a songbird. She probably could have sat there all day allowing the symphony to wash through her if it weren't for someone loudly clearing their throat.
Roseanne's eyes popped open. A stunning woman with deep-dark eyes and shoulder-length black hair stood beside her table. She had the milky complexion of a snowy owl, and despite well-defined arms that suggested she lifted weights, the woman moved as gracefully and confidently as a peacock when she shooed a bluebird off the table. Instinctively, Roseanne sucked in her gut. The woman had the proportions of a Barbie.
"Well?" The woman rhythmically tapped her foot, which probably wasn't to the tempo of a bird song.
Momentarily confused, Roseanne silently stared until she realized the woman had most likely been speaking for quite some time. Tuning people out was one of her talents, especially when birds were around.
"What?" Roseanne asked.
The woman sighed and looked as though she was resisting a dramatic eye roll. "Would you like to order now?" She pronounced each word precisely and raised her voice as though Roseanne might be deaf.
"But what about—"
"Hyuna, your waitress, is on a break, and I'll be taking over your table." The woman's left eyebrow shot up. "Sooo?"
"Oh. No. I'm waiting on someone."
"Right. Your girlfriend."
"How'd you know that? Wow. Just how gay do I look?" Roseanne chuckled.
The woman turned redder than a male cardinal. "I didn't mean...I just...um...I'll check back later." And with that she was gone.
Roseanne grabbed a spoon and studied her reflection. Long blonde hair, brown eyes, khaki shorts, white tank top, denim shirt, timbs. What about that screamed lesbian? It wasn't like she was carrying a flag, and her rainbow keychain was tucked into her pocket, not even visible.
