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48 | FRANCESCA PE NN

Chapter 11

Henri
“O ne Blue Moon, please, with extra orange.” The blue-haired

bartender winks and sashays over to the beers. Beth, according to
her nametag, returns with a chilled mug and two or-anges worth
of slices. Her fingers linger on the glass, brushing mine when I reach for it. My focus
shifts from our fingers to the glass. It is bigger than I expected.
“I gave you a little extra,” Beth flirts, her eye twitching into another wink. I am
not sure if she is flirting or trying to pad her tip jar. Either way, I gift her a twenty
and tell her to keep the change. I am sexually frustrated, and if she follows through
on her suggestive body language, I can get laid tonight. It is futile. I am not must-
bang-the-bartender-at-the-local-bar frustrated. My dick has a one-track mind.

I take a sip of the bitter brew and fight back a grimace. It isn’t the brand. It is a
shit ton better than other brews I’ve tried. There is just one simple problem: I hate
beer. I know. You’re thinking how could a single, warm blooded, French fluent,
extreme sport loving, white, Thirty-year old, American man hate beer? With a
passion is how. It does nothing for me other than make me gag a little. I attack it
with the oranges. I don’t stop until every drop of juice is drained from the
unsuspecting fruit. I take another tentative sip. Better, but not deserving of a refill.
One of my best friends, Miguel, is stumped at my dislike of ale and is constantly
searching for new flavors and brands for me to try. Blue Moon is it today. I shoot
out a few insults via text then chug the nonsense. It does take the edge off a little,
but it will take a lot more to do what hard liquor would. I don’t have the plans or
time to get drunk on a Wednesday night. I just need to avoid the house just a little
longer. Sanya is driving me bat shit crazy.