Twinkling Bottles

I sat at a bar tonight. Saddled right up and asked for their best Amber. It was strange, I felt as though I was engaging in a sacred act—a right of passage designated for those who handed their ass to the Man all day and whose only request was enough change for a shot and a beer at the end of it all. A drink and a bar-top to let fly the stifled dreams and thoughts which had patiently lain waiting—aching to exert the individuality of the man. There I sat, immersing myself in a tradition set back to the joyous discovery of fermentation and the genius construction of a sturdy barstool. It is here that the low light slows the blood and boosts the confidence of the loyal patrons.

The dark, cherry wood bar was full tonight. Suited men and women chattered and laughed, stopping only long enough to indulge in their beverages and catch the eye of the bartender for another drink. Beside them was a man with long gray hair and a flannel shirt. He was farther along in the drinking process—transfixed by the wall before him. A mosaic of glass bottles and colors glimmering against the dull light of the bar mirrored his still state. The sight mesmerized him. Gone were his thoughts of work and deadlines, arrogant bosses and power hungry coworkers. This bar left no room for those worries.

I sat there drinking in the rosy warmth that swirled around me. The weight of the day slid from my shoulders and I felt light. The weight would return tomorrow, I knew, fresh with new possibilities for compounding problems which would be set to the tune of a morning headache. At that moment though, I was just a girl at a bar staring at the twinkling bottles on the wall. That, my friends, is a place worth revisiting.