Dreamgirl
FICTION by Charley Daniels

She was my dream girl. For sure. She had long, luxurious curls the color of really good beer and deep, dark, penetrating pale ale eyes and her lips, so full and moist, tasted like beer. She had perfectly pinched, rosy red cheeks as though she had been drinking a lot. Did I mention her hands? They were holding a beer. She was definitely my dream girl, but I don't know why. Another thing about her: she was curvy, with rises and valleys just where a man likes them-a perfect hourglass, or a really strange-shaped beverage container.

I had to meet her, which may seem suspect to ordinary folk, considering I already knew what her lips tasted like. But things are far from ordinary around here. So I walked up and offered her a beer, even though she already had one. "Would you like a beer?" I asked, cleverly. She looked at me with those drunken eyes, head cocked and brow raised.

"Have we met?" she asked.

"I was the guy who tasted your lips earlier." The ice thus broken, our conversation continued for some time. At length I discovered that her name is Beer, which explains her confusion when I offered her one. As we talked we both smiled uncontrollably, not unlike two teenagers who didn't get carded at the beer garden.

The wedding was a blur.

Now Beer and I have been inseparable for longer than I am able to remember. For some people love is sensuality, security, laundry, and infidelity. For me and Beer it's late nights, ill-advised road trips, bleary-eyed confessions, lack of inhibition-you know, fun stuff. She is my dream girl, this Beer, an addiction for which no twelve step program has the cure.

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