Pigeon Poop & First Date Fiascos

Sarah arrived at 'Le Croissant Mystique,' practicing her 'effortlessly chic' pose. Mark strolled in, fashionably late, a smirk stapled to his face. Their conversation was a delicate dance of pretension: Sarah's 'ardent pursuit of artisanal cheeses' met Mark's 'profound immersion in obscure, pre-pre-indie documentaries.' The air, thick with unspoken judgment and eau de expensive perfume, was ripe for a disruption.

Enter Reginald, a pigeon with an ambitious flight path and a questionable sense of direction. He burst through an open window, mistaking the opulent dining room for a particularly gilded bird bath. Utter chaos. A waiter brandished a napkin like a matador's cape.

Sarah, abandoning all aspirations of grace, emitted a sound akin to a startled dolphin and dove beneath the table, sending a champagne bucket clattering. Mark, whose 'cool composure' had evaporated faster than his interest in a silent film festival, let out a surprisingly high-pitched yelp and flapped his menu wildly, resembling a terrified windmill.

Reginald, seemingly offended by the human theatrics, paused his aerial ballet only to deliver a critical review directly into the deepest, most expensive soup tureen.

When the last feathered flutter subsided, Sarah emerged, hair askew, a crimson blush spreading from her ears to a newly-acquired wine stain. Mark, still clutching his menu shield, looked like a man who’d just wrestled a flock of angry geese.

They locked eyes across the wreckage, then simultaneously burst into unadulterated laughter.

'Well,' Sarah managed, wiping wine from her chin, 'that was… unexpectedly honest.'

Mark grinned, lowering his menu. 'At least we know we both possess the elegant survival instincts of cornered alley cats.'

It wasn't the sophisticated start they'd envisioned, but it was certainly memorable. And far more promising than artisanal cheese.