The Perfect Pint

It scares me to think I could drink all the beers in the world, and never find the perfect pint. Or even worse, that I already had it. The smooth curves of the glass, the coolness you feel as you first embrace it. The way the condensation runs down those curves, like sweat, anticipating your embrace, maybe the blonde one, towards the end of the bar. She’s more of a summer fling. I was never a fan of the bitter ones. Or the ones that smelled of fruit. I like mine natural. What about this dark one? With just a hint of white on her head? The one that takes so much grace and care to pour. The one that seems like an eternity before I hold. The first sip ends excitement through my tongue. She lingers in my lips for a minute, before she is gone. I close my eyes and smile, knowing I’ve found the perfect pint.