Chapter 1 #2
She turns with a wink over her shoulder and heads out, while I pick up the cash she left.
There’s more than enough for her drink and a very generous tip, when I know she needs to save as much as she can for her own place.
Iggy is taking care of the few people who need it, so I move out from behind the bar and walk toward the front window.
Celeste gets into her car safely, which makes me let out a breath of relief.
Then she pulls away, something tugging in me at her absence. I shake it off and get back to work.
Once we close, I go into the sparse back office to finalize the daily numbers at the dark wood desk, and send them to my brother Wayne.
He’s an accountant, and has been handling our books since forever.
The bar isn’t his passion the way it is mine, and this is his way of being part of the family business.
All of the paperwork swims in my vision after a long shift, and I take off my reading glasses to rub my eyes when I’m finished.
Then me, Iggy, and one of my servers Chloe, finish the cleanup and get the place ready for tomorrow.
The sky is clear, full of stars, and glowing with pale moonlight when we lock up at two in the morning to finally head out.
A light breeze ruffles my hair, while the crickets and other nighttime critters play a melody of low background noise.
Iggy and I walk Chloe to her car, and make sure she’s in safe before getting to our own cars.
Iggy lingers to chat with her through her window, and her bright eyes as she looks at him make me smile.
I’ve suspected something might be going on between them, I just hope it doesn’t spill over and make things difficult at work.
Losing myself in my thoughts and the classic rock playing through my speakers makes the twenty minute drive home in my blue SUV feel like nothing.
The bar does really well, so I’m lucky to have a tidy little three bedroom house with a small, easily maintained yard.
The dove grey siding lets the brick red trim of the shutters and door stand out, while a few Eastern redbud trees line the front of the house.
I laugh when I’m immediately greeted with a familiar voice as I walk through the door.
“Gage is home!” Then I hear his loud rustling as he moves around.
“Yes, Gage is home! Work is all done, Hermes.” I move down the short hallway past the powder room, into the living room where the croaky voice is coming from.
It’s a generous space, with large aviaries along the back wall, a grey microfiber couch and loveseat, TV stand with a 50 inch flatscreen, short bookcases stuffed with my thrillers and mysteries on either side of it, and my reclaimed wood coffee table.
It flows into the kitchen with a center island and breakfast area, followed by my home office off of the breakfast room.
I’m pretty sure it was the formal dining room, but that is something I would never use since I only eat at the breakfast table.
Everything is in shades of black, grey, white, with red accents.
It feels hollow and screams bachelor pad, but it’s mine.
Hermes lets out a whistle of irritation.
“Want snack,” he declares.
“You earn a snack with a trick. Do you want to do a trick?”
“Trick for snack,” he answers like the smarty he is, clicking his beak in anticipation.
I grab a bag of his favorite pistachios and my training clicker before I go to open his cage.
This is our nightly routine, because I found out the hard way that if he doesn’t get enough mental stimulation, he gets destructive with his feathers.
He picks up words alarmingly quickly and can identify so many objects.
My hyper intelligent African Grey parrot looks at me with his big knowing eyes and waits as I move back away from his cage. His wings rustle impatiently.
“Hermes, come.” He flaps onto my forearm, and I press the clicker to reinforce his behavior.
“Good job, buddy,” I tell him as I offer the pistachio. He devours it.
“Want pistache,” he tells me, moving up and down my forearm in a little dance. I love his way of saying pistachio.
“You get another pistachio if you tell me three things, okay?” Reaching for his toy cube on the table with my free hand, I hold it up for him to see.
“What’s this? I ask him
“Box,” he says confidently in his croaky little voice.
“Close enough. What color?”
“Red.”
“What’s it made of?”
He nudges it with his beak, then gives it a bite.
“Metal.”
“Good job, Hermes,” I croon as I give him his pistachio.
I go to his flock mate’s cage and open it.
Daisy is my gorgeous sun conure who is much quieter and more low maintenance than her brother.
She still knows basic commands, though. The oranges, golds, yellows, and greens of her feathers are so vivid and remind me of a sunrise over a meadow.
Looking at her gives me instant serotonin.
“Daisy, come!” She flies gracefully to my finger I’m holding out, and I press the clicker immediately before offering her a pistachio, too.
“Very nice, pretty Daisy.”
She makes the cutest, singsong chirp that rings out like the peel of a bell.
“Pretty Daisy,” Hermes affirms from my shoulder.
Birds were always around when I was growing up, so it felt natural to get them when I decided I wanted pets.
They were cherished by my dad, he spent so much time training them and taking care of them.
We had budgies, quaker parrots, and a macaw that brought color and life to our house.
I know they reminded him of our mother, although he hasn’t had any in years.
“Beautiful, cheerful, flighty, and not always meant for cages. Just like her,” he would say wistfully as he watched them.
Maybe he’s let go, and now I’m the one clinging to some piece of her.
Wayne can’t stand pet birds, but I went the opposite way, as siblings tend to do.
Hermes and Daisy ground me and make great company.
They’re reminders of happiness in my childhood, spending time with my dad and his birds.
After we play a little more, I put fresh liners in their cages and give them dinner, refreshing their waters while they eat.
In the bathroom, I turn on the sink to a gentle, warm stream and offer them both baths if they want them.
Daisy hops in and splashes around to get the food off her beak.
Hermes does the same, though he likes getting a mist bath outside better most of the time.
With everything situated, we hang out together while I watch a movie before bed.
They both sit right on me and let me give them head scratches, relishing in the attention since today was a longer day at the bar.
Barely a half hour passes before I’m nodding off, so I get Hermes and Daisy situated for the night, putting partial covers on their cages to give them better rest, before I wash up.
Exhaustion drags through me as I take a quick shower to wash off the bar, throw on a fresh tee and boxer briefs, and collapse into my beloved bamboo sheets in my king bed.
My last conscious, random thought is that my bed feels particularly lonely tonight.
The loneliness is not even about sex, it’s the absence of having someone to hold, and cherishing the sound of their breathing.
It’s rare that I allow myself that level of intimacy, because I’ve learned going down that path leads to crippling heartbreak.
I manage to clear my mind enough to fall asleep, and dream of an exotic bird with flaming red feathers and stormy grey eyes.