Drinks

This beer looks like someone put carrots into a blender.
I’m reminded of a time when I only ate carrots.
Mostly.
I mostly only ate carrots.
One day, I looked at my hands and observed that my skin was a shade of orange. 
Like an Oompa Loompa. 
That’s the second time this week I’ve referenced Willy Wonka. 
I know it’s actually titled “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory,” but I prefer Willy Wonka.

Her beer looks like watered down coca-cola.
I’m reminded of whiskey and coke.
I wonder how many whiskey and cokes Evan drank on his slow, persistent progression toward the sweet, hazy existence of being drunk.
I wonder how many times he was drunk.
I wonder how many times he was drunk before he realized he had a problem.
I wonder how many times he lied to himself.
It sounds harsh, but it isn’t.
Actually, maybe it is.
But he was my best friend.
Don’t I deserve to be angry?
For the record, I’m not angry at him.
I’m angry at our tortured minds and the swiftly flowing undercurrent of pain and the sweet, hazy existence of being drunk. 

Her drink looks like kool-aid. 
I’m reminded of summers spent running through sprinklers, riding bikes around the neighborhood and catching lightning bugs at dusk. 
My parents told us to be home by dark and this was the 90s so if we got kidnapped, no one would know until after 8:30 pm.

His beer looks like blackberry juice.
I’m reminded of the sticky sweetness that seeps out of the fruit when you apply pressure to its bulbous protrusions. 
It would take a lot of juice from blackberries to fill a pint glass.
A lot of squeezing.
Sometimes you squeeze a little too tightly.
Sometimes all you want is to love someone
And do it well.
But the container isn’t right.
It doesn’t fit in the cupholder.
It can’t meet the capacity of what it’s trying to contain.
And the more pressure you apply,
The more it expands.
It’s bursting at the seam
Overflowing.
The container is too small
And you must take the love 
And leave.