Beer Betrothed

It was a quarter past three in the afternoon, and like a sirens song she sang to him. They had only just met a week ago, at a friends recommendation, but their love had grown so much bolder and darker as quarantine dragged. She would glare at him with sultry eyes every time he went into the kitchen; she was pleading with him to take her right there right then. When he would open the fridge she would hang on the edge teasing him with that long shapely neck. She was such a temptress - a foreign taste on his tongue that left him wanting more. 

Everybody that saw them together could identify the problem. Their sweet kiss caused sensible people to avert their eyes. It was his longing that drove them away. She would beg for him to eat potato chips every time she came around. At first he was happy to oblige, but as it became a habit - a nasty one - he decided it was time for a change. 

She would call him day and night through his attempt to accomplish medial tasks, and he would think of her. He would fight off the thoughts and see them as what they were - pleading attempts to take off her top. She grew cold, as if void of all warmth and human emotion. 

Finally one day he was motivated to do yard work, so he rode his lawnmower with pride. It was not the shiniest or fastest lawnmower in the neighbourhood, but it was his. Sometimes it would not start, so as if casting a magical spell, he would tap three times to summon the spirit of the raging beast within. Other days when he did not want to wake this beast he would approach one of his henchmen or more accurately hedgemen - his weed eating hedge trimmer. Once the quest was complete for the day the sweet aroma of malt and hops would ravish his senses. 

When dusk was quickly approaching, and a droning female voice whined with such a request as to come inside and watch the idiotic box that flickered with colour and unholy noises he knew it was time to take his sweet love to his lips. She had such a lovely head with body flowing from the top. She was perky, bubbly, and unafraid to draw attention. Typical blond!

Later that evening, as she grew weary and her enthusiasm was flattened, he knew it was time to retire. He couldn't take her to bed. What would his wife think? So he took her passionately to his lips, and drank her in. She tasted like his youth, like freedom, like laughter, and like mischievous shenanigans fit for adolescence. How could he leave without a kiss goodbye?

The midnight drone of the air conditioning lulled his senses into a deep dream-filled state. She was there - standing on the beach - wearing nothing but a thin band around her waist. She whispered to him with all the sounds of a regular quarantine-free summer. The melody of the ice cream truck played - but he didn't care. Latin fiesta music played - but he didn't care. The smell of smokies in the fire pit topped with coarsely cut pickle relish invaded his nostrils, but he didn't care. The only thing that mattered now - was SHE was there. 

Who was she? He hadn't been infatuated with her for very long at all. Before quarantine she was just a passing flirt. She had a lot of body - compared to others - but she had no genuine sustaining power. She had notes of far-away-lands that he surely could not travel to, and she had flavours that he was surely drawn to - of course - but she really had no power over him. 

His wife confessed one day that she was also drawn to her and could not control herself once SHE took over. How was it that a stranger had invaded his household under his 24/7 jobless watch but he had no idea how this intense passion started? Did it begin long ago or was this heightened state of self responsible for her taking over? He really didn't care - all that mattered was SHE was there.

The morning light broke out like a pimple on the horizon; he snarled behind the misshapen corner of a duvet. In these waking moments he remembered why he had parted ways with her before: she was mean the next morning.

They could never spend every moment together because she only wanted one thing: for him to want her again and again. There was nothing to this romance except lust! He was better off with a Lucy lemonade or a Tammy Tea but none of this Black Betty BEER! 

His wife woke him up gently the next morning with a kiss on the forehead and the softly spoken question, "what would you like for breakfast?" His reply was a dozy half asleep mumble; no sense was made. Then she attended to the hounds demanding to exit the compound for their morning constitutionals. Onward she attended to the chickens squaking their daily devotions to nutritional pellets, then finally she made one more attempt to awaken the man who ran the show, "honey, it's getting late, you should get out of bed."

Finally he arose to a simple breakfast, strong coffee, and a list of to-dos. They chatted about the day and their hopes of accomplishment then they departed steadfast with directive tasks and plans of achievement. The day dragged on, as all days under quarantine do, then they congregated once again at the table and ate their nutritional meal before they worked tirelessly to avoid bordem. They talked and laughed about amusing things, they laughed and talked about figments of amusement, and they suddenly knew more about each other than the moment before. 

The night grew old and he went to bed, so she tiptoed with trepidation to the tantulous temptress - the beer fridge. She pulled out the slick-long-necked-refreshment and sipped shamelessly in secret before settling into quarantine slumber.