Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Ten? What, are we still in college? I like to be in jammies at nine-thirty on the dot while enjoying a cheap merlot and debating the best book-to-film adaptations of all time in a Reddit group.
But I smile and say, “Sounds great.”
She’s hugging me in a blur, then racing out the door as I barely catch my breath to call out, “Good luck. You’ll wow this Frieda, I just know it.”
She shudders as she walks backward toward the stairs. “I hear she’s tough.”
“So are you,” I say, as she spins around, but…wait.
I point to the purple door I’m holding open and the keypad on it that I’ll need to use the next time I return to this place. “Maeve, what’s the door code for here? It’s different than the one downstairs.”
She waggles her phone. “It’s long so I’ll text it to you.” She wheels around, then turns right back, lifting a finger. “If you hear a funny noise on the windowsill, don’t freak out. It’s just the pigeons banging.”
Okaaaay. “Didn’t have pigeon sex on today’s bingo card but thanks for the heads-up.”
“And the showerhead is kinda short, so you might have to, well, duck.”
I make a mental note. “Short shower. No problem.”
She winces, a guilty look in her hazel eyes. “Also, you can’t face forward on the toilet seat since it’s wedged right against the wall.”
I’d hate for her to feel bad when she’s opened her home to me, so I say, “I love acquiring new skills, like peeing sideways.”
“You’re the best,” she says, then blows me a kiss and races down the hall, jumping gracefully over the top step. “Watch out for this one,” she warns and is gone in a cloud of sweet plum perfume and tardiness.
I turn around, take a big welcoming breath, and survey the tiny one-bedroom. Yup. This is definitely the Maeve I met my freshman year of college. Her stuff fucks like horny rabbits and multiplies. Paintbrushes are scattered in the kitchen sink, plants grow wildly from the windowsill, and homemade lamps crafted from old liquor bottles and castaway rhinestones sit on the table.
But it’s home for the next few days till I can move into my own temporary place. I check the clock. It’s four. Which gives me plenty of time to explore the neighborhood before I meet Maeve. That just makes good sense. I like to research everything before I do it. That way I’m always prepared for whatever comes my way.
I need to stop.
Truly, I do. I came to San Francisco for my first job as a librarian, not as a pigeon pornithographer.
But holy balls. Maeve did not lie. Not only is pigeon sex loud, it’s like a freaking pageant. I adjust my phone screen as I record the show. Big Bird over there has been strutting his stuff on the windowsill, cooing and sashaying for Ms. Peck, who keeps scurrying around in circles. Tittering. She is definitely tittering. Then, he hops up on her back.
That’s how pigeons do it? Like they’re forming a cheerleading pyramid? I had no idea, but I can’t look away. The dude is perched there. Now, he’s flapping his wings. And five seconds later, he jumps off.
Talk about a quickie.
“Not impressed, Big Bird,” I say, then peer behind me into the apartment, like I need to check to make sure someone didn’t just watch me record birds doing it.
Nope. It’s just me here. The pornithographer.
Best to get on with my evening. I hit end on my invasion of pigeon privacy and head into the bathroom.
Oh.
I stop abruptly. It’s like the size of a high school locker. But no matter. Maeve is giving me a free place to stay. Who cares if I have to squeeze into the bathroom?
I head to the toilet where, as promised, I have to pee sideways. Fun fact about peeing sideways—your knees bang the sink.
There’s a little scrape now on my left knee.
Fine, my life isn’t quite as perfect as it seemed an hour ago, but a shower will cure that. I strip out of my travel clothes and hop under the hot water, where I pretty much have to do a squat the entire time I’m under the spray. When I get out, my thighs are burning. But bright side and all—this building is a life hack, and I get cardio and strength training here.
The good news is there’s almost enough room in the bathroom to do my makeup.
A half hour later, my hair is dried and I’m wearing my oversized white T-shirt with an off-the shoulder neckline (cut by yours truly), my aunt Greta’s signature scarf to hold back my hair, my black-and-white cat-eye glasses, and a pair of pink fuzzy slippers. My face is lotioned and potioned. In the tiny bathroom, I finish slicking on mascara, then blush, as I google directions to the Frieda Claiborne Gallery while listening to a podcast about the history of San Francisco. The gallery is just down Hayes Street, so it’s not too far away.