Boys Beer Club

I sit at the hearty bar; tapping my toes ticklishly into its sides and swinging on my barstool whenever anyone steps onto the spilled sunlight from the parking lot. Like a promiscuous widow, I compare all other bars to this one, my first true taproom. It is not yet four thirty on this Thursday afternoon and already the bar of red wine walls, handwritten chalkboard menus and hip music is additionally adorned with half-empty glasses; bodies bending over books and beer; discussions with resting elbows and moving hands; and the mumblings of the daily drinkers who wake up every morning, thirsty for dark lagers and pale ales.

I glance at my friend, Claire, the bartender, as she quietly and easily commands the counter. Pretty and slender, she carries the caliber of even the college professor beer connoisseur customers who enjoy slyly testing the sweet young barkeep with casual conversations about their present pints. She places a round cork coaster under my nose and stands my hard apple cider atop it. As I sip my cold cider; crack peanut shells and lick my salty fingertips, I listen, admiring Claire's honorary membership -hell, her presidential status- to this boys' beer club.