Thickness
I’ll never understand beer, how it’s made, the sourness, the richness, what the amber color means, or why the specificity of the pour is so important. And I’m okay with that. If I listened to what he’s saying instead of intensely fixating on how his shirt fits snuggly across his forceful shoulders, I might be able to appreciate the hops education he’s giving me. But navigating the complex culture of brewing will have to wait for another day when his thick right hand isn’t brushing against the outside of my left thigh that just so happens to be uncovered from my flouncy, black summer dress.
God, he’s handsome. Maybe even more handsome than an hour ago when I spotted him as I pushed open the door to this East Village dive. I am a glossy, curvy nymph with red lips and big hips looking to people watch, maybe strike up a conversation, disappear from being on for one singular night—and he, he is a towering man with cuffed denim and a leather wristband, laughing with his friends at the bar while sipping a whatever beer and intermittently rubbing his tapered beard with that same thick right hand that is now, an hour later, inching closer to my upper thigh tattoo.
The shine on my body is faded by now and the lipstick marked on my glass as we go through each other’s histories: he’s a California boy here for the weekend with some friends, nervous about taking another cab because of a bad experience: “I don’t want to be rude, but is that how everyone drives here?” I’m a softy New Yorker who had a difficult day, in need of a seat at the bar. I tell myself that the dress, the glossiness, the lipstick is just for me (and it’s true to some extent) but it’s also a subconscious invitation for anyone to buy me a drink: “I had to send my mother a bit of money today . . . it will eventually be fine but has been kind of a draining process.” He apologizes. “You’re sweet. But I want to ignore all that tonight.”
Another red wine appears on the black, scuffed counter while he grabs himself one more amber something; his friends appear behind him, patting his solid back as they make their way to another bar. “You can absolutely go with your friends. I know you’re only here for a little while longer.” I coyly gesture to them but can’t look away from just how burly his legs are in his dark denim. I can feel the wetness starting to form as I squirm to adjust myself on the rickety bar stool. He doesn’t move, just smiles as he places his left hand on my right hip, our limbs fully intertwined.
The red wine has taken hold of my movements and I place my hand further up the rough denim of his inner thigh. “You’re not shy, I take it!”
“Not in the slightest.” I lean forward to kiss his lips but make a tiny detour for his left ear and whisper: “Do you want to remember tonight forever?”
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