Don’t Feed The Birds

The breeze rustled through the trees and up the hairs on Laura’s neck as she pulled in her pockets to her waist. Sunshine beaming through made it just tolerable for a stroll in the park. Her father offered his hand to cross the street. “Too cold.” She stared into his warm face.

“Oh, it’s a beautiful day.” His arm bumped against hers as they stepped up onto the curb. “Let’s grab something hot and then find a spot in the sun. You have your gloves on, yes?” She pulled her fuzzy hand from her pocket and wiggled her fingers. He nodded his chin and turned into the coffee shop.

They both paused at a new sign posted on the path to their favorite bench. “It’s illegal to feed the birds?” Her father’s hands flew up. “Since when?” He turned back and forth. “That just seems ridiculous.” Her eyes scrunched as a smile slid up her face.

Laura’s father had molded her in the art of observation from a young age. Forcing her to sit still, to watch people, to be quiet. Only after several minutes would he lean in and ask her for an interpretation of the scene. She would flip through ideas, waiting to impress him.

The cold wood slats of their bench pressed against her thighs, the bite making way through the layers of fabric, interrupting her thoughts. Her shoulders pulled in as the warm cup found her lips. Moving her eyes around the park, she took in the day; a sandwich vendor tended to a family, a man paused while his dog lifted its leg, two women in spandex bumped elbows as they swung their hips.

In the distance, coming down the sidewalk, a man wearing a long khaki trench coat, sunglasses and a furry head cap walked with urgency. Laura studied him. His hands were in his pockets, the coat buttoned up, but not tied. Billowing breath into the cold air as he crossed toward the park.

His build was thin, yet his waist bulged. Her chin turned with curiosity. The tattered jeans and shoes didn’t match his expensive coat, but this was New York — fashion was loose to interpretation. The path he was on was steady. A man who knew where he was going.

Was he late for a meeting? Grabbing something to eat? Why did his waist look so wide? Maybe he was wearing lots of extra layers. Was he hiding something? Her pulse quickened.

The hair rose on her arms as her stomach turned over. She studied each move as he made his way to the gathering of people in the promenade. The family around the sandwich vendor — now posing for pictures, dogs, walkers and children giggling while playing. She snapped back to the man.

Her fingers wrapped around the edge of the bench as she slid forward. His feet were not slowing; with each step he moved further into the park. She lifted her glove and placed it on her father’s arm. “What is it, honey?” Her fur wrapped hand pointed to the man in the center of the square.

The man’s arms pulled outward with a firm snap. Laura pushed back on the bench as her father rose. Loud thrashing of birds came from every direction, engulfing the place where the man stood. Disappearing into the crowd, leaving a heap of seed in his wake.