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"Moshi moshi?"

The shrike's eyes smirked, hearing the chirp on both sides of her head. Amplified in the right from the help of the mobile she clutched, echoed in the left against the chipping paint on brick from the shop's homely walls. She did not speak, taking great care to close the door softly enough that the tinkle of the bell did not give her place away. The small wren at the front desk opened his beak to question the new patron, but she quickly lifted a feather to her beak and mimed a shush. The young clerk nodded conspiratorially, and returned to his magazine, leaving the female free to silently stalk through the aisles.

At first glance, the American-borne avian stood out from the usual clientele. Dressed in a comfy, muted blouse and a pair of off-brand jeans, her appearance was relatively conservative among the figurative and literal peacocks roaming the cobblestone path outside. Despite bringing in a casually defensive air that likely precluded many from initial contact, her gait was casual as she peered down each aisle in search of the voice on the other end of the line.

"Marge?"

Her eyes fell on her target, huddled near the back corner with a phone pressed to her own ear. A woodpecker, with a cap of grey feathers obscured by a literal stocking cap and a striped pattern of earthy browns and tans hidden by a canvas jacket. Her long peak was pointed toward the display of perennials, blissfully unaware of the figure inching up behind her.

"Can you hear me?"

No answer, and with a little titter, the woodpecker pulled the phone from her ear and started fiddling with it. Marge, meanwhile, had leaned in close behind her, her curved, pointed beak inches away...creasing open just slightly.

"Ohayou."

The poor woodpecker let out an undignified squawk as she jumped in shock, wings flapping out of instinct and knocking a few flowers over. Dirt spilled out and was promptly fanned across the floor by her dance of feathers. Just as quickly as it began, the chaos had stopped. As the silence settled, the smaller female's chest was heaving slightly as she glared daggers up at the shrike, whose face was a painting of smug, unapologetic satisfaction.

"You...I can't believe..."

"I missed you too, Hiromi."

Hiromi seethed for a moment, before almost ruefully shuffling forward and wrapping her arms around her smug girlfriend, hugging her tightly. Marge's strong arms wrapped immediately around her as well, the shrike closing her eyes, happy to have her back.

"At least help me clean up," she churred reproachfully, her pelage thankfully thin enough to hide her embarrassed blush. Marge obliged silently, her lack of remorse still painted across her face as they separated. A quick apology to the clerk and a borrowed brush and dustpan later and the pair were soon sweeping up dirt and reorganizing potted plants.

"I wasn't expecting you to be done this quick," Hiromi commented, helping sweep dirt into the pan. "Did they still have Okonomiyaki sauce?"

Marge chuckled, loving the way her girlfriend's French accent disappeared the moment vocabulary even glanced to the East. "They did, as well as ketchup. Demi-glace is still a bit too rich for me."

"Ketchup..." the word streamed from Hiromi's beak with a very gentle and very polite disdain. Despite her Japanese heritage, she had not inherited the shared cultural love for American tomato-based condiments. While some of her parent's recipes made it onto hers and Marge's dinner table, she was born and raised a proper mademoiselle.

After a minute of silent tidying, Marge piped up once more. "Did Amelia already assign your latest read?"

"She did, and I've already finished."

Marge's eyes lifted in suspicion. "Finished? The meeting was this morning and you're allergic to speed reading."

"It was short," Hiromi chirped with a little shrug. "The pamphlets she distributes are usually longer, anyway. And those are a more challenging read...albeit less cogent."

"If you say so," Marge commented, a bit unsure. Hiromi had already left one political group after internal strife had grown. Neither the politics of her parents or of her current home left a good taste in the woodpecker's mouth. Even in a city with such a varied populace as theirs, finding a suitable roundtable where a well-read lesbian could speak unfiltered was surprisingly challenging. At least for a girl as vociferous as her.

"I'm still not sure about her, or the ideas she cooks up in her bedroom with her parents. You know me, I don't try to cut people out over something that trivial, but the way she decries those with more from her own pedestal...it just feels not genuine. She is calling for naturism, for us to abandon our lives as corporations and live as individuals, and then cutting off the meeting because she has an appointment to get her tail feathers styled? She jumps from radical in one blog post to pandering in the other..."

"At least she's better than Madeleine was?" The weak words were both a question and an attempt at consolation, though Marge spoke through a grimace. She knew where that tone was going.

"Oh yes, because someone calling for equality and then calling me out for my relationship with you is such a high bar," Hiromi spat in response. "We can't get anything done if we keep trying to draw lines in the sand! Talk like that gives the internet room to try and pull us apart more!"

Her voice was rising, and the clerk had stood from his post to peer over at them nervously. The few patrons milling about were turned their way, all eyes darting back and forth from the animated woodpecker to her stone-faced girlfriend.

"Everyone's too busy picking sides to move forward, like just last week, Eliza was-"

Hiromi's words suddenly became hard to articulate, as her face was obscured by shades of gray. Marge had reached forward and wrapped her in her feathery wings, not to silence, but to hold the girl close to her chest. Knowing Marge, this was likely as much for her own sake as it was for Hiromi's.

"Would you...like to tell me about the book? Also, could you grab that Azalea for me?"

Hiromi blinked, seemingly having forgotten both the initial question and the dustpan still hanging in her hand. She once again blushed, nodding slightly, and Marge released her from her prison. Before she returned to work, Hiromi lifted her head and stroked the shrike's cheek with the side of her beak in the quick intimation of a kiss, before kneeling again.

Light sounds of shuffling talons returned to the shop, and Marge let out a little sigh of relief. The adorable mix of brown and white by her feet was definitely her rock, and it was a little unnerving when the ground shook. She was grateful that such quakes were limited to this one subject, and when the shrike reached down to accept the azalea, she was happy that Hiromi seemed back to normal.

"It wasn't a political book, per-se...it was actually a little poetic novel. From the United Arab Emirates of all places."

"Doesn't seem like her scene," Marge commented idly, raising her eyebrows again.

"I thought so too...but it's one of the first books of its type coming from that part of the world. It's a poetic novel with a Trans woman protagonist."

Marge blinked, before returning to brushing dirt into the pan. It was already perfectly acceptable, but the shrike prided herself in perfectionism. She'd come a long way, even hearing the term used to fill her with rage once. Back in the days when they still called her 'boy." She'd long since outgrown that anger, however, and now she merely nodded, urging Hiromi to continue.

"There's a lot of surreal imagery...I think her sister tries to mate with an ocean spider-" Marge's squawk of alarm was ignored. "-but it comes down to her going through a surreal, magical adventure that leads her from an abused young man to a beautiful singer and dancer, revered by husbands and wives alike. Her role is almost religious, even as physical forces try to silence her. Even as the gods seem to intervene to rob her of her legs...she still sings. She...becomes a force of nature."

Both birds had long abandoned their tools and were merely sitting on the floor. It felt nice, the concrete was cool to the touch and smelled faintly of earth, mixed with the faint aromas of annuals, perennials, fruits and vegetables. The two just rested for a moment, the only sounds streaming in from the busy street outside.

As usual, it was Hiromi who broke the silence.

"Do you think that could happen?"

"Mm?" Marge lifted her head, refocusing her eyes on her girlfriend.

"Is it really that easy to break ideas? Just keep on singing, keep on dancing even after your legs break? Is that all we'd need to fix things, love?"

Margie didn't reply, and that silence returned. This time, the concrete felt a little colder. Hiromi in particular bundled up in her coat a little.

The two were lucky. Even at their worst moments, they could still look toward the future. The pair was happy.

And yet...

"I had my own book delivered earlier too."

Hiromi tilted her head, a bit surprised. Her Margie was well-read, but usually the pair read together. On her own, the shrike was usually more likely to have her face covered with goggles and a mash working on repairing furniture or building something. That was Marge, fixing what needed to be fixed and restoring what could be even more beautiful...something that Hiromi herself had come to know personally since they'd tumbled together.

"Oh?"

"Yeah," Marge replied. She paused, reaching above her and plucking a plant off the shelf. The plant in question turns out to be a lovely sprig of lavender...one that Marge rips from the dirt without batting an eye. Hiromi gasped and reached up in a half-hearted protest, but Marge began to speak again.

"It's part collected works, part biography. All about a Jewish poet whose work managed to survive in the midst of the Third Reich...who wrote words that would make even Penthouse blush."

As she spoke, she lifted the plant to her beak and quickly snapped at the end, shearing off the roots with ease. She began to twist the sprigs in her fingers, starting a loose braid.

"Her works covered everything. Sex. Love. Drugs. Loss. More drugs. She managed to offend the sensibilities of the most evil men the world had to offer...and yet she was forgotten for decades. It didn't help that she died with a body full of years of heroin...in a sanatorium, no less. The place where girls like her deserved to go."

Marge set her project aside, away from Hiromi's gaze, before leaning forward and plucking another plant from its shelf.

Oriental poppy.

"It's not an easy read...not like Amelia's, though. The words are licorice...they're syrupy, they're dark...sometimes even scary."

Another snap of her beak, and a single flower, red around the rosy, fell into her lap.

"There was one, though. It was short, which I liked...but it was like a lilac in the middle of a burnt field. Want to hear it?"

Hiromi was transfixed, both from the story and from whatever strange craft her girlfriend was doing, and she scooted a little closer as she nodded earnestly. Marge's eyes smiled, and she returned the lavender to her lap, now wound into a little circle.

"This is the end of all when all is said! No sweeter balm..."

Marge's careful touch managed to slide the stem of the poppy between the strands of lavender, tying it off and nudging it until it rested at the head, mounted like a gemstone.

"...no dearer rest could be, after so fierce a joy..."

Marge's eyes rested on Hiromi's, and a long moment passed, before she lifted her feathered wings, carrying her little craft with care, until she rested it on top of Hiromi's cap. A modest flower crown, subtle hues cut by a burning ruby.

"My weary head upon your knee."

With the final words ringing out, Marge turned around slightly, turning her back on her girlfriend, before slowly, carefully laying back. She finally relaxed, looking up at her beloved woodpecker, her head resting cock-eyed on her knee. The shrike's eyes, icy blue, gazed up at the pair of yellow-tinged orbs gazing incredulously back down at her.

"This. This is easy."

Hiromi was speechless. Emotions ran through her eyes and never made it to her beak, but they all managed to collect in a small, clear bead in the corner of her eye, one that barely had the chance to trail down her cheek before it was lost in her feathers. She lifted her hand, and stroked along her love's cheek gently, earning the slightest coo from Marge's beak. This time, the silence was full.

It held hope.

No more words were said, and no more needed to be said. There they stayed, cuddled on the floor together, a princess and her liege...

That is, until a titter from the slightly confused clerk told them it was time for closing. When the pair rose, they could hear that the street outside had cleared, the dull roar now a slow ambience. One last apology and a few euros for the trouble, and the pair stepped out the door, hand in hand. As the door closed behind them, bell clinking merrily, the pair were already gone from sight. There was tea to be brewed. Blankets to snuggle under.

There was life to be lived.