“He’s great with the customers, Paul,” she said. “George has the knack of making them feel special.”
“Maybe so,” growled Paul. “But does he have to bring his damn bird in each day? If I had known about that blasted creature, I would never have hired him in the first place.”
“Yes I know, it is a bit unusual,” said Sally placatingly. She bent over the counter to tidy the piles of fruit, her shapely breasts bobbing inside her white blouse as she did so.
“Unusual? It’s more than a bit unusual, it’s bloody unsanitary, that’s what it is. God help us if someone reports us to the health inspectors,” replied her husband morosely. “Who ever heard of a Juice Corner with a freaking bird in it?”
“Oh, don’t be such a misery. It’s safely ensconced in its cage, well away from our stock and out of reach of our customers. How can it possibly cause any trouble, tucked away in the corner like that?”
Paul pursed his thin bloodless lips and was about to make a caustic reply – what, with all those feathers flying about? – when he was rudely interrupted by the subject of their discussion, a cockatiel with bright yellow head and orange love patches on each cheek. Having maintained an air of injured silence throughout the prior proceedings, the pretty little bird rent the air with a joyful screech at the impending arrival of its owner.
The bird fluttered excitedly to and fro across the cage as George entered the little shop, carrying a box of fresh oranges in his sinewy arms. A good-looking young man, well-built with thick unruly hair and long dark eyelashes, he had that air of irrepressible spirit, romance and youthful adventure that women find so exciting – and their male partners so irritating.
Clutching onto the nearside bars of the cage, the cockatiel watched intently with dark round eyes shining as George proceeded to set the oranges down on the counter. With its yellow top crest extended, the little bird emitted a series of crooning sounds and tilted its head invitingly.
“There you go, you little presh,” said George, stroking its neck and making exuberant kissing sounds before turning to unpack the fruit.
Paul turned his balding head away in disgust, whilst Sally tried her best to conceal her pleasure at seeing George, his tanned forearms busily stacking with expert speed. George, in turn, tried not to notice her slender shapely figure hovering close by and the faint enticing waft of her perfume.
Sally turned towards a giggling threesome of girls as they approached the counter, smiling brightly at them.
“Hello, what would you like?” she asked.
She served up their order. A Passionfruit Peeler for the chubby girl with the silver tongue stud. The Fresh Fruit Fantasy for the ethereally thin girl with the black slash of gothic lipstick across her wan face. Finally, a large Orange Rocket Thruster Juice (the shop specialty) for the blonde bubbly girl with the throaty laugh.
The blonde girl cheerfully took her change and sucked on her straw before giving a little wave to George, who was still sorting the oranges at the back.
“Hi girls,” he said waving back, “How are we all today?”
Amidst their chorus of replies, Sally was hit with a feeling of lassitude, the strain of the previous few weeks’ deception catching up with her. I can’t take this much longer, she thought. Paul’s not stupid, he’s bound to guess sooner or later.
The days rolled on without incident until late the following week. The juice shop was always rather quiet on Thursday nights, with most people preferring to hurry home to dinner after late-night shopping. Paul left early, taking his middle-aged podge to the gym for a workout and leaving Sally to look after the shop during the last few hours.
Sally would usually find her husband slouched in front of the TV with beer in hand by the time she got home. But on this particular Thursday night, as he was leaving the gym sweaty and red-faced from his exertions, Paul realised he had left his driving glasses in the shop.
“Damn,” he fumed as he back-tracked towards the shop. It was after closing time and his arrival was most unexpected, Sally and George entangled in a deep embrace in the far darkened corner.
“You bastards,” said Paul bitterly. With a roar and unexpected agility, he threw his still-sweating body at the pair. George released Sally from his embrace and took a neat sidestep. The charging mass of aggrieved husband crashed into the tall pole from which the birdcage hung. Man, pole, disintegrating cage and shrieking bird cascaded down onto the tiled floor in a noisy tumult of confusion, followed by a slowly drifting trail of feathers and dust.
George took Sally by hand and the two of them fled into the warm caress of the evening air, Sally reaching for her handbag on the way out.
“Good riddance,” growled the dishevelled cuckold from the back of the shop. Getting to his feet amidst the overturned cage and other debris, he was somewhat surprised to find the frantically squawking bird held firmly in the grasp of his right hand.
The spurned husband suddenly malevolently. Maintaining a tight hold on the panicked bird, he reached over with his free left hand and lifted the ramstop free from the neck of the nearby juicing machine. He flipped the switch decisively with stubby forefinger.
The juicer purred invitingly.
With sudden apprehension, the terrified bird struggled and pecked at the pudgy hand that was holding it. But to no avail. There was a final flurry of feathers, followed by a mercifully brief sound of crunching bones.
“JUICER Commercial, large. Slightly stained. Cost $5000, sell $2000” read the ad in the local paper the following week.