But I Guess It Doesn’t Matter Anymore
Like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves
Whenever someone entered or left the brewery, rain, and winter chill rushed in like an invading army.
Roger flicked the lapels of his jacket up around his neck, took another sip of his nut brown ale, and eyed the appetizer menu. It had been a long week, but even after fifteen years of long-haul trucking, he still loved the solitude and freedom of his profession.
It wasn’t that he didn’t like people. It was just that he preferred them in small doses.
The young woman who just entered the brewery pulled up a bar stool next to Roger. She slipped off her large backpack and laid it down by her feet. She motioned to the hipster fellow with tattoos and suspenders behind the bar and said, “Excuse me, bartender.”
“I prefer beertender,” the young man said with a grin, adding, “What can I get you?”
“I’ll have what Mr. Vikings is having,” she said, pointing at the logo on Roger’s jacket.
Roger held up his glass and said, “Well, this here is a lovely nut brown ale, my favorite.”
“Sounds perfect,” she said with a smile.
“I’m Rochelle. By the way, is that your Peterbilt outside?
