Colorado - Part 1

It was just past midnight when we finally arrived at the condo, which to see the state of it, seemed more like a con-don't.

The lackadaisical do-it-yourself housekeeping ethos was evidently either not communicated to the (evidently ir)responsible party, or they elected to remain noncombatants in the guerrilla war in the midst of which we now found ourselves embroiled, waged for the side of cleanliness and order.
Nerves were thin and spirits dulled as we ferried armloads of dirty towels to the (free!) laundry room around the corner and made the beds with the cleanest looking sheets we could find. Speaking of spirits, I cracked my bottle (recently acquired—I dashed to a liquor store while my compatriots were shopping for breakfast goods at the sort of store that specialized in jerky, Twinkies, Mountain Dew, and other forms of post-apocalyptic wasteland fare) of Boulevard Harvest Dance wheatwine, Boulevard recently having expanded distribution to my home state, but this particular part of the lineup not having made it over yet, as my father cracked a Pabst tallboy (the neutered 3.2% ABW variety that shows up in grocery stores) only to quickly recant and partake of my prize instead. I was steeling myself for a night on an unfriendly bunk bed sans sheets, and galvanizing for good measure.

It was foamy, fluffy, evidently as shaken by the unexpectedly extended voyage and subsequent housekeeping as I was, but eager to breathe free. Hops, grassy, floral, maybe even pine, paved the way for a peppery spicy body which drank more like a beefed up saison than anything else. Black pepper and coriander kept the brew from cloying, though it did seem to linger, leaving lacing on the glass as on my weary palate.

Finishing the volume, laying the empty vessel to rest alongside the memory of the girl from the flight over; perhaps the most beautiful I had ever seen. Like Dante and What's-Her-Face. Beatrice.