first impression: birdie x owen
Birdie has two “first impressions” of Owen: One when they were kids, one when he walked into Fusion and sat at her bar.
Little Birdie:
Sasha didn’t come today even though Stu said she would be here. She was here the last time I came and we played with my barbies and colored on white pieces of paper until Stu came and got me to go home.
But she didn’t come today, so Stu said Chris would get his brother to play with me. His brother, who isn’t Will - cause Will is nice. He says hi to me and sometimes he’ll ask me about my coloring even though I can tell he doesn’t really get it. But Chris isn’t getting Will, he’s getting Owen… who I have never met or seen before. He’s like the ghost brother to the Selznick or something - or at least that’s what I always tell Stu.
I’m halfway done finishing my third drawing by the time Owen finally comes into the living room. His hands are in his pockets and I can tell Chris made some kind of deal to get him to come sit with me. He’s quiet, so I ask him his name and he doesn’t answer right away. We both know I know it, but Owen oblides and even asks me my name. So I tell him, “I’m Birditta.”
I put my drawings to the side and walk up over to him, hanging my hand out to shake his, “Nice to meet you,” I say. Owen hesitates but eventually he shakes my hand and mumbles something. “Come on!” I say, pulling him along, “Lets play.”
Adult Birdie:
I’ve always found it strange how time changes things. How people grow apart or lose contact even in a place like Virgina Beach. I shouldn’t be surprised though that Owen and I didn’t keep in contact, I barely talk to Chris and he’s Stu’s best friend.
Not to mention, there’s no chance that a kid who let a girl make him play barbies would ever want to be assosiated to her as an adult. Right?
So, I’m a little caught off guard when I see him walk in. His hair all ruffled up, as it should be, he looks like he hasn’t shaved or bathed in days, the misery I remember seeing in him as a kid still lingers (maybe even more now) in his eyes. As I walk up to him behind the bar, I almost expect him to remember me and my kid antics, but he doesn’t. Which, truthfully, I am relieved he doesn’t. Clean state for all of us right?
“What can I get you?” I ask him and when he leaves that decision up to me, I whisk him up a whiskey on the rocks.
“You’re brave,” I mumble, with a smile, which seems to catch some of his attention but he gives me a blank stare, “Trusting the bartender with your drinks.” I put the glass of whiskey infront of him and add, “I made sure it’s strong.”
