“Sometimes you have to hate yourself to fly,” said the well postured man. “Have you ever heard of the story about the Finch who had enough? Well it goes like this: there once was a Finch, that’s a bird you know, who wanted to learn how to swim. Well his folks didn’t care for it, you see, and they pecked his little head to death to avoid the embarrassment in their Finch neighborhood.”
“What kind of joke is that?” asked the woozy-eyed, middle-aged lady. “That’s a terrible joke if you ask me.”
“Well, let me finish here,” said the man annoyingly. “The little Finch’s parents are questioned by the authority, found guilty and drowned for the murder of their bird son.”
“..I guess it’s ironic,” the lady said lazily. “But it ain’t funny; that’s for sure.”
“I never said I was funny,” he returned.
She was easily charmed at this rate. He could see her half-sunken eyes were dry and un-alert. She wore a velvety long-sleeved dress, somewhere between a violet and a radish hue. Her slip hung a few centimeters just below the seam. Her pantyhose had a few runs, but only in the back of her left leg. She was portly but in a pleasant way, one in which a renaissance painter would have enjoyed his subject. Her hair smelled slightly of cigarettes and mostly of scented perfume. Her mouth exposed a tiny gape between her two front teeth. Her skin was smooth with few blemishes.
“One more round,” the man nodded to the waiter.