Flesh and Feathers (2 page)

And like every night… before I hit the ground, I wake; my eyes open and focus on the ceiling in my room. After five years of having this dream, I was no longer afraid or mystified by its presence. It was simply a part of my life.

6:00 am

Getting out of bed–that was the easy part. It was facing myself in the morning… that was the hardest. I avoided mirrors at all cost which was why I only had one that hung above my bathroom sink. Had it not been glued to the wall, I am sure it would have been history by now. Most people don’t understand that losing your mother at an early age and then having to look at a reflection that was identical to hers was just about unbearable. To stare too long would be pouring salt into bleeding wounds–and to be honest–I wasn’t much for pain. My mother always used to tell me that we were really sisters born to different generations. It wasn’t inconceivable. We had the same dusty blonde hair, the same pale blue eyes, and the same high-spirited nature. Well…, at least I used to. She died ten years ago when I was seventeen. Not long after that, I closed up. I told myself I would never be that vulnerable again. Then time passed, and slowly I’ve learned to open up. I have a couple of friends from work, and, even though we don’t really call each other twenty times a day or catch a movie together, they are like family to me. I wouldn’t mind complicating my life a little more, but I never found that one person worth complicating it. It probably doesn’t help that I work and then go straight home. I guess I’m hoping that he will bump into me somewhere in between.

My shift started at eight o’clock so I headed out the door, wearing my diner t-shirt and jeans.

My day will consist of taking orders, pouring coffee, cleaning tables, and listening to customers complain about the lunch special.

“Order up, Azaleigh!” Tannah shouted and called my name.

“Be right there.” I smiled.

Although Tannah was obsessive compulsive, she was great. Her tiny diner on the corner of Fifth and Laurel was handed down from her mother nearly twenty years ago. Having to support myself right out of high school, Tannah had taken me under her wing and helped me in many ways. As I watched her behind the counter with her spunky red hair and thin lips, I wondered to myself why she never had any children. I couldn’t help but feel like some poor little kid got cheated…, ending up with some deranged muffin-making parent who would much rather shelter them from the world then let them be a part of it. I had only heard Tannah speak about having children once. The outcome of that conversation had her tearing up a bit and then turning and pointing out that it was a good thing, since she had me to take care of. She was definitely stretching the truth, since I had been on my own for ten years, but–all in all–I did consider her family.

The day went by quickly as it always did. More work than hours in the day was generally the case. It was nighttime as I locked the front door to the diner, and I headed back to my apartment located about five blocks up. The walk home was usually a pleasant one. It was my chance to unwind from a hard day and admire the true beauty the city held. The night was clear and the air crisp, but not too bad for late December in Los Angeles. The streets were wet from the quick rain shower that had fallen earlier in the day. I couldn’t help but feel like I was being followed with the splattering sounds of footsteps behind me. Another part of city life–no matter what time it was–people were always out.

Up ahead I could hear faint chatters coming from a scanty bar across the street.
 
A big pink and blue neon sign filled the window. Although I walked this route almost seven days a week, I had never given much notice to this place. I am sure this was from years of staring at my feet as I walked. It was very small and quaint, but tonight it seemed to be alive with the sound of laughter and the soft hum of music.

I had always kept to myself and would have never dared enter such a place, but this night, the happy chanting coming from within mesmerized me. As I stood on the corner, I contemplated crossing the street. I wondered if going in would make the room stop….
Would it be obvious that I was totally out of place?
I had taken one step into the street before I realized what I was doing.
 

A loud horn blazed, and pain shot through my ear. “What are you doing, you idiot?” a disgruntled cab driver yelled from his car.

I quickly backed onto the sidewalk. “SssSorry,” I said, barely loud enough for even myself to hear.

Trying again, I crossed the street–
cautiously
this time–and headed towards the front door. I stopped before entering to look through the window. To my surprise, I saw only a handful of people sitting around, talking, and enjoying each other’s company. From across the street, the sound was so much more profound and did not seem to fit the scene that I was now looking at.

I pushed the door open and quietly slipped inside. There were plenty of seats at the bar, and I headed for the one closest to the back.
What am I doing here?
I thought to myself. Normally, this would be the kind of place that I would cross the street to avoid, not cross the street to enter. I sat down in the far corner.

A voice came from behind the counter. “What can I get you?”

“I’ll have a Margarita, please.” I tore my eyes away from my hands, which had turned bright red from squeezing. To my surprise, the bartender was quite attractive. His sandy blonde hair was combed back with only a few strands rebelliously hanging down over his forehead. His intense blue eyes were lined by thick lashes, which looked almost as if someone had painted them on. His black fitted shirt showed every muscle in his chest, and
oh… my… God…
was he tall. He had to be pushing 6’3 or 6’4. I tried imagining myself standing beside him. I was 5’6–average I might add–but beside him, surely I would have appeared to be one of
Darby O’ Gill’s “little people”
.

“Sure, I’ll be right back,” he said very matter-of-fact and walked away.

I looked around the room. At one end of the bar, there was a small table with three guys all dressed in suits. They were bantering each other with snide remarks about some “animal named” sports team that had apparently prevailed against another team, whose name, I was unsure of its origin. A few tables down from them were a couple of girls who seemed to be engrossed in a gossipy topic with their light whispers and constant giggles–possibly about the three guys who were consistently getting louder with each taunting remark at one another.

In a flash, the bartender was back with my drink. “Here you go. You need anything else?”

“No thanks. I’m good.” I smiled.

“Okay. Just give me a shout if you do.” He walked down to the end of the bar, leaned against it, and began talking casually with a man in a blue collared shirt who was sipping on a bottled beer. They were far enough away that I couldn’t hear anything that was being said. I assumed he was probably a regular that came here.

Still looking around the room, I was feeling even more out of place.
This was just stupid
!
Who comes to a bar, sits in the back, and eavesdrops on the people around them? The guys in the suits were getting louder by the minute. The girls were getting gigglier, and me… still just sitting here. Annoyed, I turned back to take a sip of my drink when I noticed the bartender was staring in my direction.
Was he staring at me?
I tried to be really casual as I looked around to see if someone else was sitting near me. I didn’t want to be that person–you know–the one that sees someone waving at them and then starts rapidly waving back only to realize the happy greeting was meant for the person standing behind them. I looked back in his direction and smiled, but he never really changed his expression. His eyes were concentrated, and I couldn’t help but wonder what he was thinking.
 

I finished my drink and decided I would be a little brave. I held my glass up a few inches from the counter and rattled it to show it was empty. He immediately walked over to me.

“Can I get you another?” he asked. To my dismay, he was still sounding matter-of-fact.
 

“Please.” I smiled. Still nothing from him. I realized that I would obviously have to start this conversation. “So, has it been a slow night?” This was sadly, the best line I had.

He was clinking glasses and shoveling ice. He paused for a minute, which made me a nervous. It was like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to respond, but he did. Finally, he smiled, even if it was only a little one. “Not too bad I suppose.” The whole time he never looked up from what he was doing. Placing the glass in front of me, he spread his arms out and leaned against the bar. “First time here?” he questioned.

So he wasn’t big on conversation, but it was a start. “Yeah…, I’m kind of a homebody. Not much on going out. I like…” He cut me off in a mid sentence, catching me off guard. “Would you excuse me for a minute? I have to restock.”

“Sure?” Only I said it a too late. He had already walked three steps away from me and then disappeared into the back room. How rude was that, or is it that I just repulse random strangers now?

Now that my confidence had been boosted by a negative two, I decided I would finish my drink and leave. It was apparent that I was not very good at any of this and should just spare myself the humiliation.
 

In myself-loathing, I somehow missed the angry voices coming from the three guys in suits. The playful picking must have turned into a heated debate. The more dominant man in blue pinstripes was towering over his friend, pointing and shouting obscenities. They were both getting madder with each nasty remark. My first reaction was to leave, but as I viewed my escape route to the door, I saw that it would lead me directly beside their table. I had to chance it. This night was going from bad to worse, and I did not want to be a witness to some bar fight caused by assholes who just couldn’t get along. This would be a decision I would soon regret. I had grabbed my purse and made it within a few inches of passing them when all hell broke loose.
 

The man in gray that was having a finger shoved in his face must have had all he could take because he reared back and clipped his friend right in the jaw, knocking Mr. Blue Pinstripes to the ground. I let out a gasp and stood frozen. The vindicated man in gray turned to walk away but then stopped. I wondered if he might have been contemplating turning to his ailing friend and apologizing. Unfortunately, Mr. Blue Pinstripes saw that as an opportunity or maybe even a sign of weakness. He picked up the beer bottle he had previously been drinking from. He pulled back to throw it, and I screamed…, “Look out!” The guy in gray turned and ducked just in time, but–be as it may–I was not as lucky. The bottle struck me on the left of my forehead then hit the floor, shattering. The pain was immense, and I felt my body giving way. I was weak and queasy, and I couldn’t stand any longer. As I fell to the ground, someone caught me, easing me down before I hit. It was the bartender.

Everything was blurry and unclear. I tried to focus. I watched the bartender pick the guys up by the scruff of their collars and drag them out. I was surprised. He was a big guy, but to haul off two men effortlessly was pretty amazing. Next I saw him motion the three patrons towards the exit–the last man in a suit and the giggly girls whom he helped walk out to avoid the fighting drunks.

I heard him lock the door and walk over to me. I opened my eyes, which took a lot of effort, and stared up at him. “Hi,” I said, looking dazed. I am sure I sounded somewhat silly, but I didn’t care. I was sitting in the middle of broken glass and bleeding. It couldn’t get any worse.

He ran his fingers over my wound, causing me to wince. “It’s just a minor cut. You won’t need stitches. However, that is a nasty bump.” He walked off and returned pushing a cloth full of ice against my head. “Ow,” I groaned.

His voice softened as he spoke. “Is there somewhere I can drive you?”

Moaning, I replied, “yeah, home.”

“I was thinking the hospital.”

I was
not
going to a hospital. Absolutely not! I had spent too much time in hospitals watching my mother fade away. That was the last place I wanted to go.

“No. I want to go home,” I said firmly.

“Of course.”

He helped me to his car, cradling my body against his. I buried my face into his shirt as we walked, the strong smell of his cologne luring me in.

He opened the car door and set me inside. When he climbed in, I babbled off some directions, hoping that I had told him correctly. It wasn’t that far away so I was sure he got the gist of it. As we drove, I couldn’t stop starring at him.

“I’m Azaleigh, but everyone calls me Az.” I surprised myself with how blunt and outspoken I was being. It must have come with the head injury.

He looked over at me intensely, causing me to scrunch down in my seat. “Azaleigh…, it’s a pleasure. I apologize that it was under these circumstances.”

I was waiting for him to introduce himself and was getting impatient. “And do you have a name?” I asked.

“Kale.” Again proving he was not a big talker.

Soon after, we pulled up to my apartment building. My head was still spinning as we made it to my front door. I fumbled for my keys. When I pulled them out, Kale gently removed them from my hand and unlocked the door.

“Well, thanks and good n…,” I had started to say, when he just walked right in. It was obvious he had no proper upbringing–either that or he was extremely confident that I wouldn’t toss him out.