Page 70 of Rafferty's Rules
‘What’s good?’ I place my tiny purse on the bar and straighten my dress. A row of buttons runs from my chest to my knees, and I’ve noticed a few have come undone, causing me to flash quite a bit of leg.
‘Apart from me?’
‘As you’re not a beverage,’ I reply, fastening a couple of them, ‘the answer to that is yes.’
‘I dunno. In the past, I have been called a cool drink of water,’ he answers with a theatrical shimmy, ‘but I think I’m more like a gin and lemon.’
‘Because you’re a little extra?’
‘Yep, and also because I’m a little tart.’ He accompanies his statement with a bawdy wink. I’m guessing tart means something a little different where he comes from.
‘Okay, then I guess I’ll have a glass of white wine.’
‘Eh!’ Charlie makes a noise like the incorrect buzzer in a game show.
‘You asked what I wanted!’ I protest, laughing, though, in truth, I’m a little confused. Not to mention a touch embarrassed. He was funny and a little wild when I met him at the coffee shop, but now he seems... different. Like he’s “on” and that this is the Charlie show, where no one is allowed to outshine him. Not that I’m attempting to. And not that I’m not shot down anyway. ‘Okay, fine. You decide. But nothing too heavy because I’m a total lightweight.’
‘Your wish is my command,’ he intones with a flourishing low bow before he begins concocting an elaborate cocktail.
I drink it slow—way slow—because even with his discount, the drink cost me fifteen dollars. It also feels pretty potent. Or maybe that’s just the stool cutting the circulation from my legs.Short girl problems.
And speaking of girls, the majority of tonight’s servers are female, and Charlie seems intent on introducing me to them while also telling each a different tale. To one, I’m his sister. To another, the first girl he ever slept with—the girl who turned him “a little bit gay”. I’ve also been described as the woman who’s pestering him to become a sperm donor, and to another, a sex surrogate.
None of the descriptions are very flattering, and to be perfectly frank, I’d be happy to leave. But in response to Rafferty’s texted suggestion that we have dinner out together tonight, I’d suggested he meet me here. So I’m stuck.
At one point, I excuse myself to visit the restrooms, mainly just to give myself a break, and linger in the sunshine on my return.Reluctant to, I suppose. It’s almost five in the afternoon, but the sun is still fierce, and there’s barely a lick of air down here. So I climb the steps to stand a while at the edge of the bar overlooking the harbour. The cool breeze against my cheeks revives my flagging spirits, and I tilt my head skywards to feel the sun on my face. But my brief meditation is interrupted by a sudden noisy squawk. I glance down and am greeted by the sight of a bird as tall as my knees. It’s an odd-looking thing with spindly black legs, a black beak and head, and everything in between that white and feathery. Stranger still, it seems to be demanding its share of fries from a patron’s plate.
‘Hey.’ I stop one of the servers whose job tonight seems to be to collect glasses, and boy is she collecting glasses, the stack in her arms almost as tall as she is, they even hang from the waist of her wraparound apron. ‘Kellie, wasn’t it?’ The girl nods happily. ‘That bird over there, the one we’re not supposed to feed?’ There are signs everywhere with the image of the bird’s silhouette along with the instruction. ‘What are they called, do you know?’
‘Bin chickens,’ she responds before she moves on, the glasses clinking and tinkling as she walks.
‘Bin chickens,’ I find myself repeating as I scrunch my nose.
‘That’s an ibis,’ a voice to my left says. ‘An Australian ibis. Or bin chickens to the locals. They’re a nuisance. That’s why you’re not supposed to feed them.’ The bird I’m watching squawks again, and the man with the fries drops one down in front of him.
‘Signs or not, looks like these birds have got Sydney trained.’
‘I’m guessing you’re not local.’
‘Is it that obvious?’
‘Just a little,’ the man responds kindly. ‘The accent is a bit of a giveaway.’
‘What accent?’ I reply before I can connect my brain because is that the kind of smile or a smile of another kind?Where men and their smiles are concerned, there are too many types, I feel.
I glance around, noticing how busy the place is becoming. Men lounge around in shirts sleeves or summer weight suits, while women in tiny dresses and heels carry a glass in one hand and a huge but seemingly prerequisite purse in the other. Laughing and telling jokes, braying laughter, and pats on backs. It’s obvious many of these are city workers on the countdown to the weekend, but there is more than the odd tourist woven in. Their sensible footwear gives them away; lots of dark orthoepic leather and white tennis shoes.
‘Business or pleasure?’ I’m brought back to the moment and the man with a snap.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Are you in Sydney on business or pleasure.’
‘Oh.’ I must stand out like a sore thumb. ‘Pleasure, I suppose.’
‘The best kind of answer for a Friday evening. I was wondering, may I buy you a drink?’
Well, that was beautifully phrased even if the conversation started with the wordsbin chicken.
