The second beer

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Asking him out will elate you — on the way home you’ll dine on courage and eat mutual attraction for dessert. You’ll re-heat the leftovers all week, licking your fingers after each meal. When he asks “coffee or drinks?” texting “drinks” will send a message you're happy to author. You’ll snack on brazen for days. But you’ll surprise yourself when date night finally arrives and you feel full after two rounds, your appetite sated in an hour or so. You’ll surprise yourself even more when you say you’re tired and think you’d better go home. You’ll notice when something like panic floods his face, exits his eyes as quickly as chills speed down spines. He’ll take you to another bar then and buy you two beers — the first will suit you just fine, it’s the second beer you’ll someday wish to retroactively refuse. It’s the second beer you’ll eventually picture pouring down a drain or bottling and saving for a long, hot shower — the kind with music and dancing, the kind with singing — not the kind you’ll take when you get home the next day, or the kind you’ll take after chasing the morning-after pill with heaps of water and coffee, or the kind you’ll take more than a year later — the one you’ll spend sitting down, legs crossed, sipping tears that taste like rice and flour and other pantry staples, like canned peaches and hominy, like perennial garden veggies, like a long shelf life, a far-off expiration date, something preserved, something rooted so deep it’s destined for resurrection.

“The second beer” was first published by Throats to the Sky.