A Nice Evening Out

A man and a chicken walk into a restaurant. It is a nice restaurant, not too fancy, but with tasteful decor, plush seating and elegant menus. A Maître D’ greets both the man and the chicken and welcomes them to a small, intimate table near a window. The man glances around at his surroundings and makes himself comfortable. He takes off his jacket and slings it over the back of his chair in one swift movement. He’s a tall man, taller than average. Before taking his seat, he stretches both arms behind himself, rolls his shoulders and lets out a deep sigh. Some of the other diners glance at him but then quickly look away, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. He’s wearing a grey suit with subtle blue stripes in it. Nothing too fancy. His wife bought it on sale, half price. Otherwise, it would have been on the expensive side. The man liked the suit very much, and he wore it often. He couldn’t help but notice that the cut of the suit, which complemented his physique, got him a bit more attention from the ladies at the office than he might normally expect.

While the man was settling in, the chicken hopped up on the chair opposite and began looking at the menu. The chicken was thinking of how plush and luxurious the chair’s seat cover felt under his feet, how enjoyable the sensation was and how much he was looking forward to dinner. Before the chicken could get too lost in his enjoyment, a waiter approached the table with a large decanter full of icy water. He smiled and poured a cup for both the man and the chicken.

“My name is Jason, and I’ll be your server for this evening.” It was a well-rehearsed line, one that came out of Jason’s mouth in the same tone and the same cadence every night. Jason looked at the chicken, who was still reading the menu, then at the man, who hadn’t even looked at the menu yet. 

“Would you like a few more minutes?” The man nodded, and Jason the waiter wandered away, wearing a smile as default as the lines he delivered.

“I hadn’t realized how late it was,” the man said, rapping his fingers on the table as he spoke. The chicken looked up and nodded. It was late. How quickly the day disappears, he thought before returning to his menu. He was having trouble deciding. The Corn Chowder sounded good. Or maybe the Mushroom Risotto.

“You can lose track of time, walking around. You know. Especially when...with everything…” the man said. He wasn’t really talking to the chicken, just looking out the window, watching the last traces of the sun disappear and leave him with his reflection. It had been a long day. Nothing would be more satisfying than a nice meal, maybe a glass of wine or two.

The chicken stuck his beak in the ice-cold glass of water that Jason the waiter had left. It sent a wonderful chill all over his body. He let his open beak rest inside the cup for a minute, enjoying the sensation of the chunks of ice swimming around the inside of his mouth, sliding past his tongue, clinking gently against his beak. Blissfully immersed in private pleasure, he suddenly felt the man’s eyes on him and swallowed quickly. His deep orange eyes darted nervously from one side of the room to the other to see if anyone else had taken notice. They hadn’t. He took in the wine red of the décor and noted how dark it made everything appear. Ambiance. Does that make people eat more? He wondered. When the restaurant is dark? Is there something about dim lighting that stirs the deepest corners of the human appetite? Nothing is by accident in the world of commerce, that much the chicken knew to be true.  He felt ready to order, so he turned his attention to the man to see if they were of like minds. The man was still busy reading over the menu. The chicken waited a moment, watching the man take in all the possibilities. The chicken was famished, so he decided to risk being impolite and ask the man if he had decided. The man’s forehead wrinkled as he lifted his gaze to meet the chicken’s. The waiter sensed the decisiveness in the air, as waiters are wont to do, and quickly approached.

“So, have you gentlemen reached a decision?” The man let the chicken go first.

“Certainly, the Mushroom Risotto it is,” Jason the waiter said, “a fine choice.” The chicken returned to his water and waited for the man to order. Impulsively, he dunked his beak in the glass, sloshing the ice cubes around the glass. Jason glanced at him and smiled. The chicken retracted his beak and looked away.

“I’ll have the chicken,” said the man.

“Pardon?” the waiter looked at the chicken and then back at the man.

“The chicken. Roast chicken, herbed baby potatoes, sautéed mushrooms. Here, under the Salmon,” the man pointed to the menu.

“Oh yes, yes, of course. The chicken. Yes. Right away, sir. And more water? Or, something else to drink?” The chicken asked for more water and glared at the man.

“Coke,” the man said as he handed his menu back to Jason the waiter.

“Certainly,” Jason the water said. He nearly knocked the water glass over as he gathered up the chicken’s menu. Even as he was walking away, it looked as if he couldn’t quite hold everything together. The menus, his notepad and pen, his thoughts. The man again turned towards the window. The darkness outside created a perfect mirror within the restaurant. He watched himself take a deep yawn as he stretched his arms. All the while watching the chicken’s reflection stare at him from across the table. The chicken was shifting in his seat, his head practically vibrating with the intensity of someone desperately trying to swallow their emotions.

“Is there a problem?” the man asked. The chicken indicated that there was, but the man knew that the chicken wouldn’t cause a scene.

Stacey Durnin is a freelance writer based in Montreal, Quebec. She writes weird stories, cranky poetry, and articles about natural health and wellness, work, and modern society. You can find her on Twitter @staceydurnin or wandering the aisles of her local grocery store trying to remember what was on the list, which she, of course, left pinned to the fridge at home.