Graham and Shirley Willard spent Spring Break in Austin, Texas, at the U with their twins. Chelsie was starring as Mistress Ford in The Merry Wives of Winsor. The play’s director re-envisioned the town of Winsor as Mayberry with small boys, fishing poles, and three big bloodhounds. Graham found the production charming. His wife slept through her daughter’s big scene in the last act. The next day Elizabeth had a JV softball game, but the coach pulled her after three innings of inept shortstop play, a move that challenged Shirley’s recent strides in anger management. After the game, his wife took the twins on a “girls’ night out,” while Graham caught Eric Gales’ set at Antoine’s.
Graham thought the trip went well until they returned home. Shirley did laundry, repacked her bags, and loaded the Volvo wagon. “I’ve taken a marketing position in Phoenix,” she’d told him. “I’ll send a forwarding address once I’m settled. I explained to the girls. They’re supportive.”
Shirly failed to mention that she’d emptied their joint savings account or the fact she wasn’t leaving town alone. Apparently, Graham’s Volvo mechanic had fine-tuned more than the wagon. In the thirteen weeks since Shirley left, Graham had finished the term at the Southern Iowa University, traded in his S60 for a Nissan Murano SE, and changed the locks on the condo in case Shirley decided to return. By his count, he’d been sober three of the last one-hundred days.
Sitting on his back patio in the dark, Graham heard his neighbor Brenda Hogue exclaim, “Shit!” Then a moment later, softer, “Crap.”
Their adjoining condos shared an exterior wall. Like most nights, Brenda had been drinking on her side of the redwood fence. Tonight she drank alone. “Is there a problem?” Graham called out.
“I’m out of beer.”
Earlier, he’d heard Brenda fighting on the cellphone with her Boyfriend of the Week, an Iowa transplant from Wales. Shirley had kept a list of the vehicles parked in Brenda’s driveway, predominantly Jeeps and F150s, with an occasional Camaro, Prius, or Silverado. Shirley also made notes about the men. “Tank top, killer abs, large rose tattoo.” Or “Short, balding, in a BMW X5. Probably a pharmacist, probably married.” Brenda worked as an assistant manager at the Walgreens on the corner of Division and Locust. Graham frequented the CVS on West Kimberly.
“I have beer,” he called out.
The Welshman drove an ancient Land Rover that leaked oil. Last night they’d argued about marriage late into the night, then had feral sex as Graham drank his way through a medley of note-worthy IPAs: Russian River Hopfather, Three Floyds BrooDoo, and a Surly Furious.
“I have cases and cases of beer. Cold!”
Brenda stepped onto his patio wearing an orange tank top and cut-offs.
“What kind of beer?”
“All kinds.” He motioned to the sliding glass doors. “In the beer fridge. Help yourself.”
Brenda leaned to the left, took two halting steps, and stopped. “The beer fridge?’ She reeked of sweat and cigarettes, beer, Tabasco, and onions. Salsa stains punctuated her tank top.
“My soon-to-be ex-wife refused to allow beer in her kitchen refrigerator.”
Brenda pointed to the sliding glass doors. “Beer fridge.” She took two more steps. “Must pee first.”
“Bathroom’s straight through the sliders.” Graham pointed. “Baby steps.”
She walked carefully, steadying herself often. She struggled to open the slider. He figured her for mid-thirties. He’d just turned forty-eight.
Brenda tumbled inside, faltered, but didn’t fall. In her rush, she didn’t close the bathroom door.
Graham set aside the review he’d written. The Journal needed it tomorrow. He closed his laptop and surveyed the woods. On cool evenings, he and Shirley used to start a fire in the pit and fall asleep in each other’s arms.
The toilet flushed. Soft barefoot steps. The refrigerator door opened.
“What’s this shit?!”
Brenda stared into the refrigerator. “Try the Sam Adams Wicked Easy. Bring me a Shiner Bock.”
She pulled out the beers and wove her way to him. He tucked his laptop into the grill pantry and opened the bottles. She plopped into the lawn chair beside him. “Old Milwaukee’s on sale at 7-Eleven. I’d get you some, but I can’t find my car keys.” Brenda took a drink of the Wicked Easy.
“Plus, there’s the bracelet.” He pointed to the device strapped to her left ankle.
“That too.” She drank again, letting the beer slosh around in her mouth before she swallowed. “Just because you drink good beer doesn’t mean you’re not a lush.”
“I prefer the term high functioning alcoholic.”
“Since The Bitch moved out, you get drunk every night.”
“Yes, but I haven’t killed anybody.”
She didn’t blink. “Not yet, anyway.”
Two years ago, the 1997 Mustang convertible Brenda was driving crossed the median on I-80 and struck a Sarah Lee semi-trailer. The passenger, her youngest brother, died four days later from head injuries.
“I was driving my brother’s car because he was too drunk to drive himself, and I was too cheap to pay for an Uber. I should have been locked up.”
“Why weren’t you?”
She set down her already empty bottle. “For another beer, I’ll tell you.”
When Graham returned, Brenda was smoking. On the grass beside her was a pack of Camel menthols. He placed an ice bucket with a six-pack of open bottles between them. “Help yourself.”
She picked up a beer. “Dark Horse Tres Blueberry Stout.”
“Fruity. Lots of body.” Graham replayed their conversation. “Why you weren’t locked up.”
“A ‘prosecutorial error.’ I already had five convictions for driving with a suspended or revoked license. Should have thrown the book at me. Mom and Dad wanted that. It’s what the local media demanded, but the States Attorney was willing to dismiss the DUI charges for a guilty plea and my promise of pussy for life. I’m not saying I’m proud of it, but going to jail wouldn’t bring my brother back.”
Brenda sipped the stout. “Reinstating the charge as an aggravated felony was considered, but then they caught the States Attorney with a sixteen-year-old. My lawyer negotiated a guilty plea for improper lane usage to make the story go away, and I was fined $200.” She set the bottle down without finishing the beer. “Ain’t I the lucky fuck?” Brenda pointed to Graham’s fire circle. “Light a fire?” The weather had been unseasonably cool.
The last fire had been with Shirley before their Austin trip. “Why the hell not?” Graham rolled off the side of the lawn chair, landing on his hands and knees.
“Why’d The Bitch dump you?”
“She wouldn’t say.” He crawled to the stack of wood, raised up on his knees, and filled the canvas carrier. He steadied himself on the patio fence and stood. Light-headed, he tottered over to the fire circle while Brenda laughed.
“You know,” she snorted, “you’re growing on me.”
“You’re too young.”
“Oh, right, like youth is a deal breaker for people with a penis.”
Graham arranged the wood into a pyramid, then struggled to open the match container. The more he struggled, the more Brenda laughed. “I just pissed myself.”
“I’ll hose the chair down in the morning.” He pulled out a match.
“No, I should go in. Work in the morning.”
“You sure?”
“Yep.” Brenda tried Graham’s trick of rolling off the lawn chair but fell flat. “You miss The Bitch?”
“Every night.”
“Me, too. My brother, I mean.”
In the morning, Graham couldn’t find his laptop. He’d promised the Journal editor, an old friend from Northwestern, he’d send the review by noon. He retraced his steps, finding the computer in the grill pantry. Over wheat toast, he reread his review. He started over. Sober. He made the noon deadline.
Graham removed two New York strip steaks from the freezer. He pulled out a bag of broccoli florets from Costco and blanched them in salted boiling water for three minutes. While they cooled, he fried bacon slices until crisp, then crumbled it on top, added diced onions, raisins, apple cider vinegar, sugar, salt, and a generous dollop of Duke’s mayonnaise. He wondered if Brenda had dinner plans.
A little after 5 p.m., a red Honda Pilot pulled up, and she got out of the passenger seat carrying a Casey’s pizza. She pointed to Graham sitting on his front stoop. “That’s him.” The driver leaned across the front seat and waved. He waved back. Brenda asked him, “Do you have dinner plans?”
“I was hoping for steaks on the grill, fresh broccoli salad, and a pitcher of sangria.”
“Good luck with that,” Brenda said dismissively. “I’m not cooking.”
Graham approached the car, trying to get a better look at the driver.
“Vivian bought a large pepperoni pizza. I sprang for the extra cheese.”
Graham looked inside the box. “Smells good.” He closed the lid and leaned in toward the driver: early to mid-fifties, pleasant round face, tentative smile. “You’re willing to share?”
“Only if I get to see the beer fridge Brenda told me about.”
“It’s a deal.” She smiled. “I’m Graham.”
“Vivian.” She shut off the car and stepped out. Vivian was two inches taller than him and professionally dressed: dark skirt, suit jacket, low heels, and a white blouse wilted from a long workday. Graham wore clean cargo shorts, Keens hiking sandals, and a silk Tony Bahama aloha shirt with towering florescent palm trees. “I love the shirt.”
Their introduction was interrupted when an ancient Land Rover pulled into Brenda’s drive and shuttered to a halt. The tall Welshman with unruly red hair and impossibly large hands stepped out. “Can we talk?”
“Derwyn, I told you I never wanted to see you again.”
“You did, Bren, but then–.”
“It was a pity fuck–”
“Really?”
“I was drunk.”
He turned to Graham and Vivian. “And there’s the problem.” He turned back to Brenda. “You’re always drunk.”
“You didn’t used to mind.”
“We talked about marriage. For that, you need to be sober.”
“Well, that’s not going to happen.”
“Then no wedding bells.” Derwyn considered his next move. “What’s that?”
“A large pepperoni pizza.”
“Any beer?”
“Aren’t you afraid I’ll get drunk?” Brenda shrieked at him.
“Drunk isn’t a problem if we’re not married.”
Brenda handed him the pizza box and stormed back to Vivian’s Pilot. She reached into the back seat and pulled out two six-packs of Old Milwaukee. She looked at Vivian and Graham. “Sorry, guys. You’re on your own.” The Welshman and Brenda disappeared into her condo.
“What just happened?” Vivian asked, startled. “She took my pizza and the beer.”
“I’ve got two grill-ready New York strip steaks,” Graham said, “fresh broccoli salad, and a pitcher of sangria.”
“Which you fixed for Brenda–”
“Only because I hadn’t met you–” That got a laugh and broke the ice.
Once inside, Graham grabbed two tulip glasses and took the sangria from the refrigerator. “Orange slices, strawberries, chunks of apple,” she observed.
“Fresh peaches.”
“Nice.” She surveyed the kitchen, then motioned to the living room. “May I look around?”
“Of course.”
When she returned, Vivian declared, “There are no dirty dishes in the sink; the kitchen cabinets are in order; your counters are spotless. There is not a trace of dust in the living room, no magazines on the floor. Your dryer is still warm from your last load of laundry.”
“Keeping order is how I hold my life together.”
“Brenda says you get drunk every night.”
“I don’t drink until I’ve vacuumed, made my bed, and cleaned up from supper.” Graham put the pitcher and glasses on a tray. “It’ll take a minute to crank up the grill. Would you like to freshen up?”
Graham showed her to his ex-wife’s bathroom. “The towels are fresh. Help yourself to anything in the cupboards. She’s not coming back.” He raised his index finger. “Hang on a sec.” When he returned, Graham handed her a neatly folded shirt.
“What’s this?”
“A gift from my daughters, wrong size for me. It should fit.”
“You mean, you think it’s big enough.”
“It wasn’t meant to be derogatory. You are exquisitely Rubenesque.”
“My mother called me big-boned.”
“I’m not your mother.” He motioned to the bathroom.
She popped out two minutes later. She’d put on the shirt but showed him the problem. Stretched across her breasts, it came an inch short of being able to button. “Doesn’t fit.”
“It will.” He motioned to the shirttails. “May I?”
There was a moment’s hesitation. “What are you going to do?”
He took the tails of the shirt and tied them, exposing her midriff. “Button the button on the downside of your breasts, so you don’t flash too much cleavage.”
“No danger of that. I’m wearing an industrial-strength white bra. No way to hide that.”
“Sure there is. Take it off and stuff it in your purse, then meet me on the patio.”
When Vivian stepped through the sliding glass doors five minutes later, she was barefoot, in her black work skirt with Graham’s tropical birds shirt tied and secured with one button. The silk shirt lifted her and displayed the lush curve of her breasts. She’d washed away the day’s makeup and applied only fresh lipstick. “I feel better.”
“You look delicious.”
They dispatched the first glasses of sangria while the steaks cooked. Over broccoli salad at the kitchen counter, they enjoyed their second drink, more relaxed, leisurely sharing information. She was an internal auditor for Walgreen’s with a field office at the store where Brenda was assistant manager. Her work covered the region, so she was rarely there, but they’d formed an awkward friendship.
“Before she got the ankle bracelet, we used to go out together. She called me her wingman. Actually, I was the designated driver, except she rarely needed a ride home. There was always a man, sometimes two, eager to give her a lift while I stayed sober, passing time with the bartender or servers.”
“I bet you got offers.”
“The offers I got didn’t interest me. I’d been married for twenty-eight years to the boy-next-door, the guy who fathered my three children, the only man I ever loved. He dropped dead at our eldest daughter’s wedding reception while doing the chicken dance.”
Graham laughed. He stopped himself.
“No, you’re right, it is funny unless you were there or had to pick up the pieces afterwards. That man loved to dance.”
From the sunporch in the next condo, they could hear Brenda crying out, “Yes! Yes! Yes! God, yes, Derwyn! Harder, harder!”
“Well this is awkward.” Vivian set her napkin down. “Brenda had promised to get me drunk.”
“Why was that?”
“I’m not comfortable saying.” Graham tilted the sangria pitcher and speared several pieces of fruit from the bottom. He passed the pitcher to Vivian who did the same. “Brenda also mentioned your beer fridge…. She claimed opening it was a religious experience.”
“Are you a beer drinker?”
“No. Not in the sense she is. I’ll pop open a Bohemian Black Lager once in a while or a Sam Adams or Fat Tire.”
“Brenda is an alcoholic. She doesn’t give a shit what she drinks.”
“She’s a high-functioning alcoholic. She thinks you are, too.”
“I’m not.” Graham took a breath. “At least I wasn’t before my wife left. I drink because I can. I don’t teach in the summer. Nobody depends on me. I don’t operate heavy machinery. Fall term, I have a heavy class load. I’ll need to be sober then. Or if my daughters visit.”
“But no need right now?”
“None.”
“Brenda told me about your wife.” She leaned in. “Does the drinking help?”
“It deadens the pain and passes the time.”
Vivian leaned back. “Then I’m game. Let’s get stinking drunk together.”
“This way to the fridge.” Graham guided her down the stairs into his rec room and bar.
“I won’t have sex with you.”
“Tonight?” Graham paused. “Or ever?”
She considered the questions. “Just tonight. I want to be sober when I have sex again. Tonight I want to get drunk.”
“Great plan. This is the place. But please put my name at the top of your dance card for when you’re ready for sex again.”
Graham’s rec room was just off the patio, complete with a glassware cabinet, pool table, pinball machine, and karaoke. He pointed down a short hallway. “That’s the downstairs bathroom. To the left is a guest room where you can sleep tonight, so you don’t have to worry about driving. The door locks.” He turned. “And this is my bar.”
Vivian gasped. “When Brenda said ‘beer fridge,’ I thought she meant….”
“One of those little dorm things?”
“Right. I didn’t expect….”
“A 22 cubic foot Frigidaire Gallery with custom tapper.”
Vivian approached the appliance cautiously and opened the door. “Oh my!” She read off the beers in the door and worked her way down the shelves: “Hop Zombie, Serendipity, Arrogant Bastard, Hoppy Ending Pale Ale, Funky Buddha Maple Bacon Coffee Porter, Dark Lord, Pliny the Elder, Polygamy Porter, Stone IPA, Sexual Chocolate Imperial Stout.” She pulled out a 22 oz. bottle. “Hammer of the Holy? Really? That’s a thing.”
He took the bottle from her. “You’re not ready for the Hammer.”
Vivian put one hand on her hip with mock indignity. “And why is that?”
“It’s brewed by Clown Shoes. They take their Undead Party Crasher Imperial Stout and age it in rum barrels. Dark, full-flavored, with smoky malts and soft rum notes. Eleven percent alcohol. Most of the beer you drink is 4.5 ABV. We’ll work our way up to it if you’re interested. What do you usually drink?”
“Ales and lagers–Anchor Steam, Bell’s Two Hearted Ale, Lagunitas Brown Shugga…. I’m ready for something different.”
“Bent River Jalapeño Ale.”
“Really?”
He grabbed two. “Trust me.”
Vivian closed the refrigerator door. “Trust you…?” Graham pulled Grumpy Troll pint glasses from the cabinet. “Maybe it’s the sangria talking,” she said, “but I do trust you; otherwise, I’d have left as soon as you suggested I freshen up.”
She stepped out onto the patio, sipping the spicy ale while Graham pulled up the loungers he’d hosed down in the morning. Over steaks, they settled into easy conversation, first about their jobs, then about their children. While drinking their second beers–an Allagash White for her and a Kilt Lifter for him–they cautiously talked about their marriages.
“I never doubted that Willard loved me from the moment we met in high school, but he was always so insecure. He got his associates degree and started selling insurance. I pursued a BA in accounting and gave birth to our two boys. It took me six years to graduate. I worked for a small auditing firm. While I was on maternity leave after the birth of our daughter, I studied for the CPA exam. My score earned an Elijah Watts Sells Award and a job offer from Walgreen’s where they encouraged me to get my Master’s Degree.”
“I’m impressed.”
“Willard wasn’t, except by my new pay stub. He wished I’d paid more attention to him and the children. The kids thought I was just fine.”
“How was he as an insurance salesman?”
“Good. Sturdy. Detail-oriented. Relatable. Conversant in sports he cared nothing about, a Toastmaster, an amateur weatherman, a Lion….”
“And a good dancer.”
“Very good. When I took the regional director’s position, I bought us dance lessons at the local Arthur Murray Studio, and he got even better. I was on the road too much to be serious about it, so he found partners among his clients and the women who danced at the studios. He entered dance competitions with some of them as partners.”
“That might strain some marriages.”
“It could….” Vivian paused, shook her head, then added, “I can’t go there.” She slid her legs off the side and gradually unfolded from the lounger. “I have to pee. Then I’ll need another beer.”
Graham rolled out of the lounger onto his knees and stood up beside her. “Anything else you’d like?” She touched his cheek, then drew him to her lips.
They kissed gently, not insistent or needy, connecting and exploring until she pushed him away. “Have to pee. Pour me something fruity.”
When Vivian returned to the downstairs bar, he noted her wardrobe shift. She’d unbuttoned the rest of the shirt and loosened the tails. Graham handed her a flute glass. “It’s a White Peach Saison from Smog City Brewing. A foudre saison refermented with local white peaches.”
“A foudre saison?” Her face flushed. “You’re making this stuff up.”
“A saison is a pale ale that is carbonated, sometimes spicy, and often barrel conditioned, in this case in a massive wine-aging vat called a foudres.”
“Where do you find these beers? I’ve never seen most of them. Stocking the Frigidaire must cost you a fortune.”
He shook his head and sat down on a bar stool. “I write articles for magazines, websites, and breweries,” he confessed. “When I’m not teaching literary criticism at SIU, I’m a beer critic.”
He pointed to the beer in her hand. “I reviewed the Saison for an article I sent out this morning. ‘The fresh peach notes combined with restrained acidity, produce a dry pleasant finish for any caliber of beer connoisseur.’”
Vivian took the glass and sampled. “Amazing.” She sipped again. “Exactly as described. Damn, you’re good. You should write a best seller like that guy who wrote…”
“Fifty Brews from Fifty States?”
“Right!” That’s when she saw the book on the bar. “You are the guy that wrote the book. My son gave it to me for Christmas. Now I’ll have to read it.”
“You wouldn’t have to read it.”
“New York Times nonfiction best seller.”
“I did my research.” They headed back to the patio.
Back on the lawn, they kissed again before awkwardly settling into separate chairs. He wasn’t sure what to do with her breasts.
“Do you write off the beer as a business expense?”
“Of course. I’m not stupid.” He took a breath. “I’m also not a dancer.”
“Well, thank God for that. One dance champion is enough for a lifetime.”
“You sound bitter.”
“Do I?” Vivian focused on her beer as the sunlight started to fade. “I suppose I am.”
“My wife ran off with my auto mechanic. What’s on your plate?”
“According to Willard, every dance partner was prettier than me. Julia, from two doors down, was a better mother. He informed me that Elizabeth (who I used to work with) started her own accounting firm and always had supper on the table.” She sipped steadily on the Saison. “Everyone marveled at how much my husband loved me while ignoring his casual indiscretions, cutting comments.”
“Death by micro aggression.”
“Damned straight.” She set down her empty glass and stood. “No more beer until we kiss some more.”
When Graham rose to meet her, he found her hungry lips. He worked his way down her neck and wrapped his arm around her bare waist. He pulled her closer, focusing on the swells of her breasts. They heard a noise.
“Things are warming up out here,” Brenda leered.
“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” the tall Welshman said, “but we’re out of beer. Brenda said you had spares.”
“He does.” Vivian adjusted the aloha shirt. She glanced at Graham, who nodded. “Derwyn, are you ready for Hammer of the Holy?”
“Hell, yes!”
She took Derwyn’s bare arm and guided him to the fridge.
Once inside, Graham pulled out four snifter glasses. “It’s a rum barrel-aged imperial stout,”
“Great for a little celebration,” the Welshman called out.
“Shut up, Derwyn.”
Brenda was wearing a smoke gray camisole leotard and tiny cut-off jeans shorts. Her hair was damp from a recent shower. Derwyn was barefoot and shirtless in tight jeans, also with wet hair.
Vivian brought the 22-ounce bottle from the Frigidaire and poured equal portions of the stout into the four snifters.
Graham explained. “The wide bowl of the glass allows for generous servings, while the narrow rim keeps aromas concentrated inside.”
“More than we need to know,” Vivian said, distracted by Derwyn’s bare chest and the attention he was paying to her breasts. She tugged at the knot until the aloha shirt hung open. She handed him a glass. “What shall we drink to?”
“Let’s drink to marriage,” he blurted out.
“Absolutely not,” Brenda snarled.
“To new friends,” Vivian suggested.
“How about to coupling?” Graham offered.
Everyone raised their glasses. “To coupling.”
Graham began turning the glass. “Twirl the liquid like you would a fine cognac.”
“Cognac? It’s a beer, isn’t it?” Derwyn asked.
“Capture the bouquet.” They followed his lead, twirled the liquid, inhaled the aroma, then cautiously sipped. They surrendered to the dark smoky malts.
“So, Derwyn, am I reading the mood correctly,” Graham asked, “you’re getting married?”
“Yup.” His gaze remained on Vivian.
Vivian leaned towards him. “What about the sobriety thing?” The shirt fell away from her breasts. “Wasn’t Brenda’s drinking a deal breaker?”
“We worked something out.” Derwyn stared. “She’ll stop when we have kids.”
“Great! I’m so excited for you.” Vivian touched his bare shoulder. Derwyn jumped. “But I am disappointed….”
Brenda smirked at her friend’s suggestion, turned, and walked toward the lawn chairs.
“Disappointed?” Derwyn asked.
“Of course. You’re off the market before I ever got a chance…. Not that I haven’t enjoyed the evening with Graham…. He and I have been talking….”
“And making out.”
“Yes, of course, making out.” She lowered her eyes modestly. “Derwyn, did you know that Graham is the first man I’ve kissed since my husband died? He seems like a good kisser, but I haven’t had many men to compare to.” She swirled the Holy Hammer in the glass and took another drink. “Are you a good kisser?”
“Fuck, yes!” He slapped the bar. Brenda turned back to the group.
“Is he really, Brenda? Or is that the beer talking.”
“It depends on what part of you he’s kissing,” she said cynically. “He’s definitely worth kissing if you get the chance.”
“Is he better or worse than Graham?”
“How the hell would I know?” She looked over to Graham. “Did you tell her we had sex?”
“He didn’t,” Vivian sputtered. “I just assumed….”
“I’m engaged,” she said flatly.
“What’s going on?” Derwyn asked.
Graham explained. “Vivian recently rejoined the dating pool. She’s out of practice, so she’s doing research. Would you mind if she kissed you?”
“Hell no.”
Vivian called out, “How about you, Brenda? Do you mind?”
“Why would I?”
“You want to marry him, don’t you?”
“You won’t break him, will you?”
“How about this….” Graham took Derwyn’s glass. “After tonight, you will be exclusively Brenda’s man, but as a special one-time offer, if you’re interested, I think you should kiss Vivian.”
“Right now?”
“The sooner, the better,” Vivian urged.
He licked his lips and grabbed her by the waist. “I like a gal with meat on her bones.”
“Slowly,” Brenda warned.
Graham suggested, “A few warmup kisses before you involve your tongue.”
“Hey, I know how to please a….”
Vivian took his head in her hands and kissed him, pressing her lips against his to silence him. Her hands slid down his bare shoulders and muscular arms. Derwyn ignored Graham’s advice about holding off on the tongue. Eventually, they came up for air.
Vivian kissed his neck, then his hairy chest, clawing at his back when he pushed the aloha shirt off her shoulders.
Brenda turned to Graham. “I haven’t seen this side of her. She was pretty tame the couple of times we went out together,” she observed. “You okay? You seemed into her.”
“She’s not going to have sex with him.”
“You sure about that?”
“Pretty sure.” Vivian guided Derwyn’s lips to her breasts. “But the verdict is still out.”
“They’re both topless,” Brenda noted. “We’re over-dressed.” She unbuttoned Graham’s shirt and tossed it aside, popped the snap on the waistband of her shorts, and dropped them. Vivian moaned as Derwyn pressed her against the bar.
Graham and Brenda kissed with some urgency, stopping only when they heard, “No!”
“But I thought…,” Derwyn protested.
Vivian pushed him away. “A kiss. I wanted a kiss. That’s it.” She glanced at Brenda. “He’s good. You’re a lucky woman.” She stepped away and found her shirt. “I need to….” She hurried to the bathroom.
“Did I do something wrong?” Derwyn noticed Graham was now bare-chested.
Brenda put her shorts back on and walked over to him. “No, Sweetie, you were great. Thanks for helping out. Let’s grab some of the Old Man’s beer and pick up where you and Vivian left off, maybe by the fire pit.”
“Nah. Let’s go back inside.”
“Whatever you say.” Brenda stroked the bulge in his pants as Graham grabbed a six-pack of Fat Tire and a second of Sam Adams. They were already back to her condo when Vivian emerged from the bathroom.
“I’m not making good decisions.”
“Oh, I think you are.”
“Making out with the Welshman?”
“Allowing yourself the freedom to kiss another man. Exploring your passions. Telling him to stop because you didn’t want to have sex with him.”
“Oh, I wanted to have sex with him. I really wanted to….”
“But you were drunk?” She nodded. “So, you said no. That’s pretty impressive.”
Vivian studied him. “Not disappointed? If I’d had sex with him, you could have had sex with Brenda.”
“I don’t want to have sex with Brenda.” Vivian scoffed. “I’ll rephrase that. I don’t think sex with Brenda is healthy for either of us. It’s not going to happen.”
“Because…?”
“Because I don’t want casual sex.”
Vivian smiled. “Really? What kinds of sex would you like?”
“I’ll make coffee,” Graham suggested. “Let’s talk about that.”
[Ima[ge Credit : Photo by Pawel Czerwinski on Unsplash ]
by 
Paul Lewellan
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Excellent, Paul. I especially like the large Rose Tattoo allusion. Nice touch.