Girl Dinner

We had started out the evening with a bottle of expensive Merlot I ordered off the wine menu. Monica always loved it when I took charge this way and saved her the trouble of having to browse the selections herself. Besides, after six months of dating, I was confident I had her preferences down to a T. When the bottle arrived I pointed out the label to her.

“Did you know Merlot is French for ‘blackbird’?” I asked as our server poured us two glasses. We were at our usual table, rooftop seating, with an expansive view of the city.

“I didn’t know that,” Monica acknowledged. I could always tell she was grateful when I taught her something new. I was glad when she didn’t ask about the rest of the label. Probably could have figured it out if I tried, though. I’ve always been good at picking up on context clues.

“You know, speaking of birds, I read something interesting the other day,” I mentioned as I swirled by glass. “They just released a study that found birds in the city are more afraid of women than men. You’d think it’d be the other way around.”

“Who even pays for those studies?” Monica wondered. She surprised me by breaking off a piece of bread—Monica never ate bread—but it was only to crumble it up and sprinkle it near her chair.

“Seems like you have no trouble endearing yourself.” I smirked as I watched a sparrow hop over to cautiously peck at the crumbs she had scattered for it. “Guess I’m dating a real-life Disney princess.”

“Maybe if one lands on me you can say that,” she played along with a laugh. “Or if I spontaneously break into song.”

“I’d kind of like to hear that.”

She scrunched her nose in a way I found adorable. “Take me out to karaoke next time.”

Next time. If I had my way, there would be plenty of next times. I was going to marry this girl sitting across from me watching that little bird hop around her heels. She was funny, smart, beautiful, and judging by her intense focus, fascinated by the wonders of the natural world. She observed that bird like couples at neighboring tables observed the glowing screens of their devices. It didn’t hurt that she didn’t break the bank every time I took her out and insisted on treating her. She barely ate as far as I could tell. Yep, I was definitely a lucky guy.

“Hey, I’m gonna go use the restroom real quick.” I set my napkin aside, still smiling, and rose. Monica looked up from the bird to beam at me. God she was gorgeous. Really I wanted to flag down our waiter without arousing her suspicions and see if there was anything special I could do for her tonight. Maybe I could lie and tell them it was her birthday so they made a big fanfare about it. Pretty sure she would love that, and the servers always looked like they enjoyed themselves in those moments. Sometimes I’d see them called to different tables five or six times in the course of a single evening. I’d never worked in the service industry, but it seemed like a fun job.

I never located our server. On my way back from the bathroom I paused at the entry to the deck, surprised, as I spotted Monica still sitting alone at our table. She had something in her hand, but that something wasn’t her phone. I realized it was the bird she had been feeding earlier. She held its tiny body clasped in one hand, and was gently massaging the fragile dome of its head with one fingertip. Its beady little eyes were squinted half-closed in… was that contentment? Or fear? An uneasy feeling stole over me, but I shook it off. No, it looked like it was being lulled to sleep by her caressing. I wondered how she’d got hold of it. Clearly it trusted her enough to be held.

My girlfriend, the Disney princess. Communing with nature. I stood back and observed a moment with an indulgent smile on my face. I probably looked like a cornball, not something I’ve ever been accused of being, but I couldn’t resist. I watched as Monica brought the bird nearer to her lips. I thought she was going to plant a kiss on it before letting it go, an idea I was less enthusiastic about.

Thoughts of avian germs, lice, parasites flew from my mind the next moment. I could see the bird visibly struggling now in Monica’s fist, her skin bleaching white with the ferocity of her grip. She opened her mouth, and it was so much more than a kiss. Her lips parted wide, wider, until I thought her jaw would dislocate—and then it seemed to unhinge, and continue opening wide, ropes of saliva trailing between her upper and lower teeth, the crown of her head practically sinking back into the nape of her neck. The bird gave one last fearful struggle in her hand, but it was too late, as its head disappeared inside my girlfriend’s mouth.

She didn’t finish it in one bite, even though she could have, easily. Her teeth, so much longer than I knew, with her lips pulled back, champed down, pulling the bird’s head from its spine, like Saturn devouring his son, a Goya painting I once described to her in great detail on our first date in a way that impressed her enough to agree to a second. I had guessed from the outset that Monica preferred a man of culture. But I was starting to wonder what I knew about Monica’s preferences, actually.

Her mouth opened a second time, like the act of eating was mindless, automatic, her tongue the conveyor delivering the rest of the bird (still flapping, how was it still flapping?) down the yawning chasm of her throat. Her jaws snapped shut, her lips pressed tight together, and I watched the wriggling lump slide under her skin and disappear beneath the pressed Peter Pan collar of her dress.

I thought about bolting. I had never dined and dashed in my life; but wasn’t Monica the only one who had dined at this point? My vision was tunneling, and still I stood rooted to the spot, fight or flight (hadn’t the bird tried both and lost?) giving way to freeze. Monica glanced up then and spotted me, and there was no escaping back into the restaurant undetected. I walked slowly over to our table and sat down.

Our server reappeared within moments to take our order. “Just the house salad with dressing on the side for me,” Monica said, folding her menu shut. I stared at something caught in her teeth. She noticed, and closed her lips abruptly, feeling around, her tongue bulging out a pouch in her lower lip before sweeping sideways to her cheek. She fiddled this way for a while, then plucked the detritus free and laid it out neatly beside her plate. “You know what they say about girls who can tie cherry stems into knots with their tongues,” she said slyly. “They don’t say they’re Disney princesses.”

“Uh-huh.” She hadn’t been drinking any Shirley Temples I was aware of, and the gnarled trophy she had produced for me definitely wasn’t a cherry stem.

When our entrées arrived, I watched her sip wine and move leaves around her plate as she carried on convivially. At least she was giving the impression of eating. I hadn’t even touched my Chicken Parmesan. I was too busy shooting furtive glances at all the other female diners—single, paired, gathered in groups—and noticing the identical house salads plated before them with dressing on the side. I could have sworn several of them were looking at me. The sun had just sunk below the horizon, and either the lengthening shadows or their evaluating gazes made my skin grow cold. There were no more birds hopping around underfoot. Maybe they had all flown away?

“What?” I asked when I realized Monica was awaiting a response.

“I was just thinking, when we move in together, we should set up a bird feeder,” she repeated. “Or even a bird house or bath. We can make it really welcoming for all the urban birds in the neighborhood. That way, they’ll know I’m not someone they need to be afraid of.”

“Uh-huh.”

She smiled again, then dabbed her mouth with the corner of her napkin. She seemed to be having some indigestion.

I rose without meaning to. “I think I need to use the—”

I was suddenly surrounded by a crowd of people. I sat back down, sweating bullets, hemmed in on all sides. Someone slid a slice of cake in front of me, right next to my untouched meal, and a fleet of servers started clapping and singing in unison. A pair of hands garroted me with an elastic band as a conical hat was affixed atop my head.

“When you were in the bathroom earlier, I told them it was your birthday!” Monica crowed.