Off the Wagon

Aislin faced the bar ordered a vodka tonic--the drink no bar could get wrong--and stared at the neon domestic beer signs casting the patrons in an eerie red glow. Familiar faces from high school telling familiar stories, each marked by bad marriages and multiple kids. Lining the wall were NASCAR plaques, famous pictures of baseball's history, and small placards denoting fried delacasies served in red plastic baskets.

The bartender looked like an ex-boyfriend and probably was. Aislin had been popular with the opposite sex in the days before college--a lucky combination of five miles a day and large Irish baby feeding breasts. Furthermore, Aislin hypothesized that most men fantacized about red heads, although her red locks were now the result of monthly salon appointments.

Duke drank his Guinness like a drunk recently off the wagon. In two swallows the pint was gone.

"I'm sorry," Aislin said.

"Do you apologize for everything?"

"I suppose I do. I'm Irish Catholic, guilt is all I know. What's your excuse?"

Duke stared into his glass as if the answer was hidden in the foam at the bottom, started to talk, but Aislin interrupted him. "You know I never hear confession when alcohol is involved. Let's just enjoy our beverages and take in the atmosphere."