Like a bird. Never understood that saying, "I've been eating like a bird." Birds eat disgusting shit and they don't do it slowly. Feed the pigeons in the park. They are gluttonous fiends. They may may pick at their meals, but there is nothing sedate or restrained in their actions.
So he says to me, "I've been eating like a bird," gives me a look as if that should illicit some sympathy and immediately I'm no longer interested. I start looking up at the clock on the wall, wondering how to politely excuse myself. I fucking hate birds. I suppose that's the real problem.
The bathroom. I tell him I am going to the bathroom and make my way through the bar. I enter a stall with the word "DAMES" stenciled, but peeling, on the door. How did I wind up in such a lame place with a bird-man? Now, when I think about him sitting there at the table, I picture a beak where his mouth should be. My stomach hurts.
My phone rings as I sit pissing on the toilet. I rummage through my bag knowing I'm going to miss the call. I find the phone, but the ringtone has stopped. The name on the screen makes me frown, but it's the excuse I've been looking for. I make my way back to the table. The bird-man coos dissapointedly when I tell him I need to go. I try not to make rude faces at him. I tell him he should eat better, more slowly. He looks at me funny. I don't care. I leave.
Outside the air hits me in sauna gusts. There are birds outside on the sidewalk. I kick an empty bottle discarded on the concrete at them and they flutter away, waving the stench of the city up my nostrils.
Felt - Birdmen from Crumbling the Antiseptic Beauty (Cherry Red, 1981)
No comments:
Post a Comment