Flying the Coop by Ilsa Evans

couldn’t leave the birds alone.’
    â€˜How can you . . .?’ Kim nibbled musingly on a piece of sushi. ‘I mean, wouldn’t he have, um . . .?’
    Chris left it to the other women to explain the ins and outs of the situation. Instead, she broke off a large piece of the cob and loaded it with some of the mix. Then, leaning back, she concentrated on eating and just watching life go by along the Yarra. Across the other side, traffic could be seen, appearing and disappearing through the narrow gaps between the buildings, while on the Yarra itself, a kayak sped past upriver, three sets of oars working in perfect unison. Along the path that snaked next to the river there was constant movement: runners jogging, young parents proudly pushing three-wheeler strollers, tourists with cameras at the ready, university students loaded with books, groups of teenagers trying desperately to look cool.
    Chris picked up her chardonnay with her spare hand and took a sip. She was going to miss this, but she really wasn’t sure how much. Certainly she would miss this group of friends, with their light, fun conversations and risqué bantering. And she already knew that, although she would offer invitations to come visit, none of them would. They could be admiring and envious in a theoretical sort of way, but they were city people through and through. To them, Box Hill was out in the sticks and places like Healesville, or Berwick, or Baxter, were somewhere out the other side of the mythical black stump.
    And suddenly, with a flash of insight, Chris realised that in another year or so, she herself would be part of their lunchtime banter: ‘Hey, girls, do you remember Chris? The redhead who threw everything in to go and live with the chooks?’And this realisation awoke her lead weight of niggling doubts so that they churned up towards the chardonnay, and the kebabs, and the mayonnaise-hummus mix. She put her piece of cob loaf down on the table and felt sick. What the hell had she done?
    â€˜Are you okay, Chris?’ asked Annie, with concern. ‘You look pale.’
    Ebony waved her hand ostentatiously. ‘It’s probably the cigarette smoke.’
    â€˜Hey, I’ve moved away from the table!’ said Janice, aggrieved. ‘What else do you want me to do?’
    â€˜Give up!’
    â€˜I’m fine,’ said Chris to Annie, who was still looking at her. ‘Really.’
    â€˜Okay.’ Annie, obviously doubtful but willing to be convinced, returned to the conversation leaving Chris to stare down at the Yarra once more and try to get her stomach under control before she gave the group something else to talk about.
    A middle-aged couple strolling down the path hand-in-hand suddenly paused just beneath the restaurant balcony and commenced, or continued, what looked like a heated discussion. The woman, a plump, curly-haired brunette, pulled her hand away from her partner’s and folded her arms across her chest tellingly. The guy then immediately used his now free hand to jab in the air and illustrate whatever point he was trying to make. Chris watched with interest, wondering if it said something negative about her that she found it strangely satisfying to witness these complete strangers argue, whereas their earlier intimacy had just been slightly depressing. She was reminded of something her mother had often said to her father whenever he had come home after a bad day. Misery loves company . To which her father would respond by slamming his way out of the house and ensconcing himself in his garden shed for the remainder of the evening. Thus disproving his wife’s theory.
    Chris swallowed the last of her dip-laden cob loaf and took a sip of her wine. The man was still waving his hands around and lecturing his partner, who stood there silently, arms acrossher chest and staring out over the Yarra. Suddenly, though, she unfolded her arms, gave him a filthy look and strode away. So