Into the Fire

        (From another WIP titled in a love song . . .)

     Not much of a drinker anymore he’d agreed to accompany his coworkers on this Friday night macho session simply because he knew the drill. His construction buddies wanted to christen the new guy with the camaraderie of drunken manhood, share a few more crude jokes, flirt with the barflies, and assert their praiseworthy abilities to hold their liquor. Only one of the group was married, but it didn’t slow the guy down in the beer chugging or flirtations, though he didn’t seem serious with the teasing and the girls didn’t take it so.

     He felt the beer gaining momentum along with the usual accompanying bravado, one of the primary reasons he’d decided to leave drinking behind for the most part. The crazy stuff was far back in the past, but the tendency to strut, which he buried when sober, always seemed to display itself like some posing peacock if the alcohol gained any authority in his bloodstream. As his eyes locked onto her, that rebel urge surfaced in full peacock hue. He grabbed a couple of the near empty pitchers and sauntered up to the bar placing them on the counter beside the youngster’s barely touched glass of dark brew. 

     “Refills, please.” He kept his voice level in spite of the noise, not wanting to appear as shouting his instructions. She hadn’t seen him until then, and the feathers felt full and mighty fine when she looked into his eyes because he caught the fleeting surprise in hers which he was sure ended in a blush concealed by the low lights of the bar.

     “Yes, sir.” She emphasized the “sir” and gave him a sideways smile, fully recovering from her emotional lapse at what he assumed—or rather—hoped was a pleasant view for her. She filled the two pitchers, and he paid for them with a $50 tip. She started to protest, but with a slight tilt of his head he stared her into submission. She pushed it into her black jeans’ pocket, a bit flustered.     

     “Thank you,” he said and walked back to the table full of raucous high-fiving guys beginning to feel their beer. After he sat down to a couple of good-natured shoulder shoves, he looked back to catch her watching him. It felt good to be a man at that moment. He gave her a subtle smile before she turned away.

Father, thank you for every word, every inspiration. I write because you allow me to create in this manner. Apart from you, I can do nothing. That much is for sure. And thank you is never enough. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.