The view would, theoretically, be “fire” were it not for the smattering of bird shit peppering the ledge outside the window. Clearly, Abby had infiltrated the pigeons’ bathroom (/special viewing perch). And wasn’t it just her luck to choose the worst possible seat in a restaurant that was supposed to be “posh”? Though not posh enough to have a waiter actually seat you. Abby was “well-off” by the standards of today, but not so profligate with money that she would go totally off the rails when it came to her spending. Least of all for dining out, something she still considered a luxury—particularly with prices being what they were at restaurants. Of course, she understood. All those employees demanding a living wage weren’t going to come to work for nothing. Not anymore, at least. Perhaps in another era, they would have (and did). But this was the era of the employee taking a stand. The era of the employee refusing to settle for anything less than what they were worth. Even though, with the advent of AI-powered robot options, it seemed like a dicey time to go up against “The Man.” Not that Abby would know about such things. She had always led a very sheltered existence. One that never required her to work in the thankless, high-stress service industry.

Naturally, this was a tidbit about herself that she never shared with anyone. It wasn’t the sort of detail that people wanted to hear—in other words, it wasn’t the sort of detail that made her “relatable.” And, in order to be well-liked, one had to be relatable. Considering that Abby was already only mildly tolerated in general by those few she counted as “friends,” she wasn’t about to make herself utterly hated by unearthing this revelation to them. They might stop talking to her altogether or, worse still, send her that Thought Catalog article titled “Why Everyone Should Work a Service Job at Least Once.” Abby really couldn’t handle such self-righteous, didactic content. So she would keep certain elements of her past to herself. And she wouldn’t get uppity when she found service in such restaurants as these to be lacking. After all, what did she know about the service industry? What did she know about anything, really? Except, well, she knew what good ambience was. And the place she had chosen to sit didn’t have it. By the same token, other table options in the upstairs seating area offered landmines of a different sort: a loud chewer, a crying baby, an arguing couple.

Abby chose the table that was most removed from this ilk, but the tradeoff for her peace and quiet was the sight of piles upon piles of shit. Otherwise, the view would have been lovely. But, as with most everything nowadays, it was tainted. She was just about to consider leaving altogether when her server, a blonde-haired twenty-something who looked like this was his side job in between acting gigs, approached. Hmm. Maybe it was worth staying. Maybe he was the view that would compensate for the one just outside the window.

“Hi there, have you had a chance to decide on what you’d like to drink?”

Without thinking, Abby replied, “A sea breeze.”

The server eyed her strangely, but nodded along. “Sure. One sea breeze coming right up.”

She couldn’t explain what had prompted such a non sequitur drink choice (especially in a joint like this), apart from the fact that she had rewatched, of all things, Red Eye a couple weeks ago, and sea breezes were a prominent enough device within the plot. This in terms of Rachel McAdams’ character, Lisa, ruing the day she ever ordered them while unknowingly being stalked by Cillian Murphy’s character, Jackson, and then finding a way to circle back to that with the closing line of dialogue. The drink undoubtedly infiltrated her subconscious only to come to the fore now. But this wasn’t a movie, nor was it 2005 (when Red Eye was initially released). There was nothing “charming” about her order to this server. And she wouldn’t doubt if he had to Google what the hell a sea breeze even was before delivering her command to the bartender. Who, in turn, would also probably have to Google it. Perhaps she was being more jaded than usual, but it seemed to her that people didn’t know anything “offhand” anymore. The existence of Google and the internet as a whole had turned their minds to mush because they relied constantly on this entity to tell them what was what. Even what was real.

For Abby, the only thing that was real right now was the literal turdfest in front of her. Now and again, a lone pigeon would appear on the ledge to add to the piles. She did her best to avert her gaze, but it seemed every time she took a bite out of her eventual food order (three chicken tacos), that was the moment her eye would catch sight of the shit-infested ledge. This making her mind susceptible to interpreting the sight to mean that her food also tasted like shit. It was probably among her worst dining experiences out in recent memory. Though there was that time she ordered pasta alla Norma and discovered, too late, an errant piece of glass in it that warranted an immediate trip to the dentist. It goes without saying that the restaurant didn’t offer to pay for that bill, but did comp the meal and furnish her with a free tiramisù. Not that she could really enjoy/eat it at all with her gums bleeding all over the place. But the most tragic part was that the unfortunate incident turned her off of Italian food—once her preferred cuisine—entirely.

And now, it was looking as though this table with a view (of bird shit) was going to turn her off of Mexican food for good as well. Slowly but surely, maybe every type of cuisine would be eliminated from her list of viable options for one grotesque reason or another. Still, she did her best to eat every last, er, bit of her tacos, downing the second one with the sea breeze that tasted decidedly…strange. Not because of the sight of the bird shit affecting her taste buds, but likely due to the bartender’s ineptitude. It was extremely possible that he didn’t find the best recipe choice when he did a cursory investigation online.

By the time she had eaten two of the tacos, she could not stomach the third. Abby was disgusted far beyond the point of enjoyment. She was ready to call the attempt at “taking herself out” fruitless in every way. And then, just when she thought it couldn’t possibly get any fouler, a pigeon flew directly into the window with a cacophonous (or was it “caca-phonous” in this instance?) splat. Part of the splat being the monstrous dump it took as it hit the windowpane. She had heard of shitty meals before, but this had taken the phrase to the next level.

Practically running back down the stairs to get to the register so she could pay the tab and do her best to forget this had ever happened, the blonde server bumped into her on his way up. His tray full of chilaquiles and margaritas went flying all over her white blouse and black pinstripe pants. Evidently, this was a restaurant where smacking into things was a trend. And as Abby stared down at her alcohol-soaked and food-coated attire, the server offered, “I’m so sorry about that. Can I offer you a complimentary flan?” A vision of flan intermixed with bird excrement danced in her head, and that was when the combination of the bad sea breeze and the tacos would no longer be tolerated by her stomach. She threw up. Leaving the question of whether she wanted a free flan or not unanswered.