Thirst...it's simple, and it's not!
|Word Count 300
I sit in bars, pen and tablet in my hands, poking at a stone in my chest. It’s kinda my thing.
I like this particular bar. The bartender is sassy, pretty, and remembers my name. Our first exchange was over the Beer Menu she offered me and my contemptuous reaction:
“No thanks,” a sideways smile on my face. “I’ll just have a pint.” My eyes scan the forest of kitschy taps. “Pabst is fine.”
“We have a nice new Belgian dark...Cotton Gin. It’s from a brewery in Indiana. Really cool, it’s located in an old textile mill.” She shows me the advertisement card, a retro-style reproduction of a 1950’s ad campaign. Yeah, it looks cool.
I smile. I’m in a good mood, and, like I said, she’s pretty. “Not really into it. Pabst is fine.”
She studies me, taking in my buttoned collar, tweed flat cap, and stainless watch. She tosses her hip a little (I said she has sass). “You look like you’d like the finer things.”
“No, Ma’am. I’m a ditch digger. I can assure you, a cold beer is already a fine thing. If I’m ever in Belgium, I’ll drink their dark ale.” I let my eyes sparkle. She has sass, but, I let her know I still have a little charm left in me.
She brings the Pabst and leaves me alone. She’s a professional.
Taking my tablet, I write. Observations, encouragements, and cussings...this is my private journal. When the curious ask, I tell them it stops me from mumbling out loud to myself. None of their damn business what I’m writing.
Two hours later, she replaces my Pabst with a snifter of dark ale. “On the house,” she says. “I’m Sam,” and extends her hand.
The Belgian was quite good.