I Spy

Part 2

Part Two:

Diary entry two is a much better beginning than ‘dear dairy.’ 

I probably shouldn’t be writing this at a table, in a bar, in the corner, but bars have never been my scene and I’m not sure what else to do, other than sit in a corner, huddled over a book.

Anyway, how have I never heard of Sanctuary? I’ve lived in this area for a while, probably passed it a couple of times, but it seemed completely nonexistent on my radar.

My first night following Mr. Gallagher and he goes to this place?

Honestly, you’d think it’d be more for females with all the eye candy working here. There are female waitresses, ‘course the one I got insisted I had to go to the bar counter to order. What’s the point of having ‘waitresses’ if that was the case, but me, being the coward I am, discarded my lame ass hat and purse on the booth seat, grabbed my wallet and walked up there.

Note, at this point, that I did put on my tight black cat suit before I left and how incredibly uncomfortable I was standing between two beautiful men chugging back a beer while, I’m almost positive, eyeing my posterior. I could feel my face getting splotchy red spots.

And, of course, while waiting for the bartender to take my order there was a bird. Right!  Why was there a bird? I have no idea. Talk about unsanitary, but none the less, I was still going to order food. I was starving and the aroma of steak, BBQ ribs, shrimp, and Gumbo, among other things, was too good to pass up over a bird.

I most definitely didn’t think it was real when I poked at it either. Granted, not my brightest idea, but honestly I didn’t expect it to hop back and ruffle its feathers like it was crazy.

Then the bloody beast did something horrible, causing everyone to stare.

It squawked at me, loudly, and the noise bubbled from my throat before I could stop it, my weird scream that sounded more like a high pitched, but short, gasp. Then it trotted over to me, maybe even strolled if a bird could do it.

It was a freaking live bird with an attitude!  Yeah, mister high and mighty bird brain.

Here I am, my hands up in surrender, owning my mistake, and this hawk, as the man with the spider web tattoo informed me, struts his stuff like he was a human with hands on his hips demanding an explanation. The next thing I know the hawk squawks again and flies away.

And because I don’t have a filter between my brain and mouth, I turn to yell at the snotty little devil, fist raised.  “That’s why cats are better!” I shouted and I kid you not, shook my fist at it, in the middle of a bar, where there are tons of people, most of them staring. “I oughta feed you to my cat,” I’d added in a mumbled voice as if I hadn’t embarrassed myself already. “Mr. Bigglesworth would be beside himself with the treat.”

There I was yelling at a poor defenseless bird because I thought it copped an attitude.

I was the one that poked it after all. How would I feel if someone came along and poked me out of sleep?

Calliope

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