Alcoholic

I poured the beer the same way I always did. A forty-five degree tip of the pint glass, so as to not make too much of a head. I watched the golden nectar cascade from the mouth of the bottle and roil around in the bottom of the glass like the rapids in a raging river. The liquid was not sure which way to go, but going all the same with a reckless head of steam. The bubbles danced like fairies in the night sky, calling me closer, dancing their seductive dance. The gases infused into the beverage, now free, cascade upward in a reverse waterfall growing the rich, thick, foamy head to a consistency of the icing on a wedding cake. I, thee wed.

I knew the first taste would be the best. The tickling of the tongue, like a million miniature bolts of lightning shocking me back into a time before worries, before my life as I sit in it now on this wooden stool. I could now smell the hops. It reminded me of a long lost love of whose name I can’t, but should remember. I longed for that forgotten, nameless love as I watched the head finish and the glass settle out. There was clarity in my life now, for the last six weeks, four days, and fifteen hours that mirrored the serene clarity in that pint glass. The drink was still beautiful and enticing, but no longer a raging sea of gas and water smashing against each other in a twisted web until no sense could be made. Seeing that beauty is enough.

I will not drink tonight.

Copyright 2010 Jon Kuppinger