My daughter had a playdate at a friend’s house, so my wife and I took advantage of our free afternoon and tumbled into bed.
To take a nap.
When we awoke refreshed after our forty-five minute slumber, I said, “Let’s go get a cup of coffee.” Getting into our car, we drove over to an arty little town near mine that’s filled with cafés offering diverse cuisines, coffeehouses with live music and poetry readings, art galleries, antique stores, a playhouse, hipster barbershops offering hot towel shaves, ice cream parlors, bookstores, and bars both honkytonk and bespoke. Looking at the trees on the hills below the town as their fiery leaves danced in the cool autumn breeze we sighed contentedly, enjoying our little break from parental cares. Then, after ducking into a Columbian bakery for some empanadas and tres leches cake, we made our way over to a coffeeshop for some caffeinated treats.
“I’ll get us a table by the window,” Annie, said as we walked in. “Get me a café au lait.”
“Coming right up,” I said.
A few minutes later, perched on stools by a large picture window, we sipped our coffees and talked about how nice it was to be alone for once when I noticed two birds pecking each other on the second story ledge of the building across the street.
“Look at that,” I said, pointing. “What are those birds up to?”
“I don’t know,” my wife replied. Then one of the birds laid down, the other bird mounted it from behind and, with a flapping of wings, they got it on.
“Are they having sex?” Annie said.
“Yep.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen birds doing it before.” Then, just as soon as it started, the act was complete.
“Wham, bam, thank you ma’am,” I said. “I guess he’s not much into foreplay.”
“I feel dirty,” Annie said.
“Dirty, dirty birds.”
Watching as the exhibitionist avians flew away, we though the show was over but then, after watching then play peek-a-boo for a bit, they flew back to their perch and began the whole love dance again.
“Guys got stamina,” I said.
“They’re going to do it again?”
“Maybe.”
“Another bird’s watching them,” Annie said.
“I think voyeurism is programmed into every male’s brain no matter the species.”
Fishing her cell phone out of her pocket, Annie began to film the birds. “Great,” I said. “I’m married to a poultry pornographer.”
“Just call me Owl Goldstein,” Annie said.
Sure enough, the birds did it for the second time in a row and, when they were finished, I gave then the thumbs up. “I’m jealous,” I said. “When we first started dating, we’d go all night.”
“That was a while ago.”
“Not that long ago.”
Sipping her coffee, Annie smiled. “Now we know where that restaurant gets all its eggs.”
“Free love and free range,” I said. The name of the restaurant below the bird’s ledge of love? “Egg City.” You can’t make this stuff up.
“Okay Owl Goldstein,” I said, “Let’s get home before playtime is over.”
