The Cockatoo Lady

Chapter 1

What was I thinking?

I sat across the table from Charlie, staring in disbelief at his double chin, his lips smeared with barbeque sauce. He looked nothing like the photos he posted on Tinder. My best friend, and ever faithful assistant, Jenny, had warned me about using that app. Why hadn't I listened to her?

"So, what is it you do for a living again?"

"Interior design," I repeated for the third time in the past half hour. Was he even listening to anything I said?

"Oh yeah, that's right." He lifted a rib to his mouth and took another bite. Who orders a rack of ribs on a first date anyway? "Well, I guess that's an honest living," he said, before adding three fatal words, "for a woman." For. A. Woman.

I flinched. Not only was he bordering on obese and digging into his dinner as if he were starving and it was the last supper—which clearly, it wasn't—but he was a male chauvinist pig, to boot. I was so grossed out, I could hardly touch my garden salad. I pushed the plate away and grabbed for my wine glass. At least there was that. If I had known that he was going to throw caution to the wind and shed any semblance of decency on what was our first date—and most certainly last!— I would have ordered a cowboy steak with a side of mashed potatoes and fried onion frizzles on top. But despite my initial disappointment when I first spotted him waiting for me in a booth at Mighty Quinns BBQ—his choice not mine!-- I had still held out hope that something good might come from the evening.

It had been two years since John Jenkins walked out of my apartment and my life. With him, he took my heart. My Prince Charming. Gone.

"It isn't that I don't love you," he had said as he stood in the foyer of my one-bedroom apartment in Gramercy Park, his suitcase and two boxes of belongings heaped in a pile by the front door. "I just can't live like..." He made a wild gesture toward the inside of the apartment. "...like this."

"What do you mean?" I had no idea what he could possibly be talking about. People would kill to live in an apartment like mine! It was picture perfect with pristine white walls and white sheers, not to mention a very expensive fluffy white Flokati rug. The perfect pallet for my 1960's Mid-Century Modern furniture that was back in vogue in a big way. It was also the perfect back drop for my modern art collection that proudly boasted a Warhol lithograph. Most people would have to go to an art gallery or museum to look at a Warhol! And he was complaining?

"People don't live like this. It's not natural."

Always the same thing, and frankly, I was getting tired of hearing John moaning about the same thing over and over again. Could I help it if I liked my apartment to be perfect? I mean, who doesn't want their home to look like a showroom? Their pillows to coordinate with their wool rug that was imported from Greece? Okay, so maybe combing the pile with an afro pick every night before I went to bed was taking things too far but, I was one of the most talked about designers in Manhattan. A rising star among the who's who of Interior Design. I had to keep my standards high. I don't know how many times I had to explain to John that If my apartment wasn't a showplace, how could I possibly expect to grow my client base? Every few months, I held one of the most talked about cocktail parties in the Big Apple, inviting my most loyal clients to mingle among one another, all the while showcasing my latest design talents. And I certainly couldn't have mismatched pillows on the sofa clashing with the artwork on my walls or any other design faux pas, for that matter.

"What's wrong with how we live?" I had asked, hoping he would remove his hand from the door knob.

"It's not living, Dana." John frowned at me. "I can't even cook anything for breakfast or, God forbid, make a pot of coffee on a Saturday morning."