I remember, when I was young, holding a beer to my lips and tasting the bitter, bubbly glass. It was cold and hurt my teeth.

Sam Adams, my father told me.

My first love said she tried Sam Adams. She liked it. I liked it. I was worried that only opposites attract, but together we found love.

And then we broke up.

I tried beer again in college, but it was no Sam Adams. Bitter still, I drank it to feel light and watch the lights dance when I flicked my eyes from left to right.

It wasn’t the same.

I met Sam Adams again in a dark bar at the end of college, clutching the red-painted hand of a brunette bartender. It was sharp and rough, too cold and thick to swallow. I collided with her that night, and together we watched the lights crash from left to right, sipping our Sam Adams in the haze of banned cigarette smoke.

She stopped talking to me one day and hurt me to the point of repair.

Sam Adams saw me tonight, illuminated atop a wooden beer tap, soft in the white lights of the Midtown bar. I looked at her and drank my Blue Moon, watching the lights flicker in unison, left to right.

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