Wings of a Static Dream.

Only remnants of the previous encounter were left to sip upon. If the last conversation was a bird, then the elegant surprise of its open wings was now merely a feather falling from the sky. She cradled this image as it landed in her mind, stroking its softness against her cheek. Looking upwards, high into the clouds, there was a place in which a dream was begging to become a storm. She uncorked the bottle hiding in her bag. The glasses tinkled as the two found themselves testing each other's contours, finally coming free from the tightly wrapped scarf that had held them apart during their long journey together. As she released them from the dark confines that they once shared and placed them on the concrete steps, she felt the smallest droplet of rain meet her face. It was almost imperceptible, but she noticed it nonetheless. She looked up into the nothingness of that foreboding sky, and beneath her mask, allowed herself a rare smile. To the legs that rushed past her on the street that hopeful expression was equally as imperceptible. She poured the wine.

Her eyes snapped towards the ground as she heard the two-way radio crackle to life. Before picking it up she smoothed her skirt over her knees and took a breath. Tentatively she brought the device to her lips.

"Hello?"

She waited as legs tramped past. She tried again, but with more confidence, as if deciding to walk from behind the curtain and onto the stage.

"Hello?" she said again, waiting to be heard.

Her audience was silent. Only static spoke from beyond the tiny holes of its plastic casing; her only applause was the clip-clapping of feet going past her. She shook it off. She bit her lip. She took a sip and remembered not just the composure that had always held her in such high regard, but more importantly, the reason why she was here in the first place; allowing that thought to pour from a height of uncertainty and fill the emptiness that she had become so accustomed to. She savored this new taste, and let it linger there - to try to come to know it.

However, before she could, a pair of legs broke rank and came to stop directly in front of where she was sat. Had he not spoken she would not have been aware of his presence, for her eyes were closed, her lashes interlocked as her thoughts swirled. The lightness in which she held the stem of the glass between thumb and forefinger was to be her undoing, for as he announced himself with a: "What's a cooking here?!" the shock of her severed reverie liberated the glass to shatter upon contact with the concrete below. The fragments were as many as the indistinct curses expelled from under her breath. She tried her best to sweep them from off the step, collecting the larger pieces in her palm, although she had nowhere to put them, and flustered, came to an abrupt halt as the mechanisms inside her stalled. The wine, now loose upon the ground, began exploring the area on which she was perched, dangerously finding its way towards her legs.

"Woah there!' said the stranger bending down, "I got this." And it was only then that she really looked up. Masked though he was with what could only have been a dishcloth, and certainly not a clean one, it was clear from his eyes that he had spent many nights with them open. He unknotted the cloth from around his face to catch the spillage before it reached her, but before he could, he was stopped short - her hand grasped his forearm pushing against him unsure of his intention. He nodded to the wine still ever inching closer and she relinquished her grip, allowing him to proceed.

"You know, it ain't usual to find a lady sitting on these steps here. And also even less usual to find one with such an 'E'laborate set-up." he added, elongating the word elaborate with relish as if rediscovering an exotic fruit. "I'd also be inclined to believe, that you Miss, had lost your head in the clouds. Am I right?"

He finished mopping the wine; the dishcloth stained anew - a color that she was beginning to turn, both out of indignation and embarrassment. She ignored him, shuffling herself up straighter, her gaze steadfast out to the other side of the road.

"Great restaurant that one," he said, sitting beside her. "Italian. And man oh man," he gave a deep sigh, "if pasta could only talk - well it'd sure sing you a story. Be a real shame if they shut up shop for good. One heck of a place for a date. I'll tell you that."

She said nothing. They both knew she hadn't noticed the restaurant. She felt another droplet of rain, this time on her knee.

"Now I'd hazard a guess, and yes, I am indeed the guessing type, that you're hoping to run into someone special - am I right?"

"Is there something I can help you with?" she enquired, her tone utterly devoid of courteousness, and then, turning to face him she saw that he was holding the untouched glass of wine in his hand. His nose hovering above the rim.

"Put that back. Now." she demanded, with a ferocity that surprised even her.

He gave it a quick sniff before carefully placing it back from where he found it upon the step.

"Say. I'd guess that what you have there is none other than a Merlot. Am I right?"

She scoffed. Unimpressed.

"You read that straight off the bottle."

"Sure, I could have, but I prefer to put my senses to the test."

"Well right now you're testing my patience, so if you don't mind, I am, as you so cleverly perceived, waiting to meet someone. And they'll be here any minute so I think it's best you leave."

But leave he did not. His hand rummaged in his coat pocket for a moment and she watched as he produced a crusty end of focaccia. From the effort it took to break it apart it was clearly days old.

"Now don't worry," he said, "it's not for us." and no sooner had he cast the crumbs skywards, up into the gray, did the birds appear. It was as if they had always been there - just out of sight: poised, ready, and waiting for their time to pour down from above. She looked up to see more open wings glide down with practiced certainty to land around their feet.

"Pigeons." he said. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Not the most charming birds in the city, but hey! They like me and I like them, but -" and he lowered his voice to a whisper, "that one." and he pointed to a bird different from the rest. "Yeah that one's my favorite. Little blackbird - Like your wine there." he added, gesturing to the bottle of Merlot. The radio spat static before she could form a response, just as the street once more resumed its busy task of providing passing legs. The birds took flight.

"Hello? Are you there?" she asked. No answer. She held her breath and her eyes closed again. Remembering again. A first date? The notion of it had taken her aback, but when he'd suggested it she felt that unmistakable rumble in the clouds, and the excitement of unpredictability compel her. Yes. She had agreed and agreed to the when's and the where's. It was as set in stone as the steps on which she sat now. So where was he? The radio he'd given her was, she supposed, a romantic touch, but it seemed suddenly absurd.

"You calling for back-up?" the stranger joked. She had almost forgotten he was there.

"If you expect me to laugh -" she said opening her eyes.

"No. no." he held up his hands. "Hey look. I'm sorry. I know I been way outta line. Got a habit of cooking up a storm before I even simmer down and begin to introduce myself. But look - I know a man's only fear when meeting a woman is whether she laughs at him, but a woman -"

She cut him off - "Fears whether a man will hurt her."

"Well exactly. And now I know you can't be sure whether I'm the hurting type - I'm not by the way - but it stands to reason why you'd be a little hesitant of my company, but guessing that the person you're meeting is on the late side why don't you indulge me till he arrives? Now you have that radio, which, by my guess would mean that the fella you're waiting for is in some manner connected to law enforcement. So. It would be unwise, don't you think, for me to act in an untoward manner to you - and I would like to add also, that I wouldn't be behaving in such a manner to any woman who did or did not possess such a device." He exhaled, exhausted by his own speech.

She laughed. She considered him for a moment.

"Are you homeless?" she asked honestly.

"Well let's just say certain situations have changed."

She raised an eyebrow.

"These are unprecedented times." he said as way of explanation. "You never know where's next. Talking of which." He stood up and offered his hand to her.

"You must be joking." she said, not taking it, not budging. The little blackbird seemingly out of nowhere hopped up onto the step, then up onto his open hand, and then up again onto his shoulder. He grinned. She rolled her eyes.

"Where?" she asked, retrieving a single feather that the bird had shed beside her bag.

He gestured behind them, up the steps and beyond to where the concrete gave way to trees - a small slice of nature forgotten by the hungry streets.

"As you said, I won't hesitate to call for 'back-up' if you do indeed step out of line." she warned.

He nodded. She did not take his hand. Instead she squeezed some sanitizer onto his open palm, before getting up and following him into the park.

She had heard violin high up in the leaves when she had first arrived. She had been excited at the prospect of watching the musicians play; expecting that they would have watched them together, arm in arm. No matter, she was here now and the stranger who accompanied her as she waited was entertaining. He knew the rag-tag band by name, tweaking the moustache of the accordion player before dancing in time to the music, and after the first song concluded, whispered: "Give the old boys a drink." Which she did gladly, pouring it into their mugs.

"They used to play at my place. Every week!" he cried, his coat twirling behind him.

"What place?" she asked, but the band had started up again and it occurred to her that she should be dancing. The bottle under her arm almost as empty as the batteries in her walkie-talkie.

The place that he was talking about was boarded up when she arrived. He fumbled in his coat pocket again, and dusted off crumbs from a set of keys. They lit a candle when they were inside. The power was out, but the gas was all he needed. He served her fettuccini as the storm broke behind the shutters. On the opposite side of the street her estranged husband sat on wet steps waiting in the dark. Late for their date. She on the other hand began to dance to a new story. He'd been right, the pasta truly could sing. She stroked a black feather to her cheek; her smile unmistakable.