HOW IT IS

I finished another long shift at work tonight, counted the deposit money, and biked home; the death of summer crunching under my bicycle tires. Upon my arrival, I flopped down onto my beige, sagging mare of a couch and began flipping through the channels; a joyless endeavor if ever there was one. I wonder if Hallmark makes a card for this?
She: "Bachelor #1, if we were on a date and a carjacker tried to hold us up, would you take a bullet for me?"
He: "Bitch, I don’t even know you."
Click.
Sirens wail in the distance, and heavy diesel trucks dressed in international orange and yellow roar past my window in a hurry. I think they should just replace all the news with these three words: Somebody Fucked Up. Can you imagine Dan Rather trying to keep his game face with that headline? I pop another cold one and remember the taste of the beer in Spain; the way it kissed me so fearless and full-on like the first girl who didn’t bother to close her eyes while she was stealing my oxygen supply, one tongueful at a time. It seemed unbearably clean on my teeth, almost capable of washing my soul. So full and promising. That was beer, man. Beer like nothing I had ever tasted before; perfect and sweet, like wind through the pines on a late summer day, or the sight of the sun in a pretty girl’s hair. The way her eyes might shine as she walks away from you, looking back over her shoulder down the beach, laughing with her whole being. Another love of your life let go without a word of protest otherwise. Filed away, a memory you will study on nights like these with flat beer and shitty TV to keep you company.