Bimbo beer

chapter 1

Bag in hand, I rang the doorbell of my friend’s apartment. I say “friend” because I haven’t dared have a conversation with her about any kind of relationship. The last thing I wanted to do was scare her away. As things were now, she’d text “good morning” to me, laugh at my jokes, and invite me to go hiking every day. For me, that was just fine.
I heard her before I saw her: light, pattering steps muffled by white carpet against soft socks. She opened the door wide, smiling wider.
“Michael!” she sighed happily. “So good you made it!”
“Hey,” I stepped inside as she sealed the door again. “How was work today?”
“I had an appointment again,” she sighed. “They’re going to schedule me again to look into fixing my concussion in a few months, but in the meantime, the pills they gave me still… oh… thanks…”
I’d taken the chance to give her a warm hug – a bold move, considering how we’d only ever hugged each other when saying goodbye.
“Don’t worry,” I patted her back (another bold move). “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
“What’s in that bag?” she changed the subject, trying to look into the plastic bag to see what I had bought.
I swung my gift behind my back. “It’s a surprise,” I grinned. “We can open it when we watch the movie.”
“Okay Michael,” she laughed. “Let’s get in the living room – you ready for this? I got Chik-fil-a.”
Her name is Sam Dominique. The name alone bleeds with sexual appeal, as did her very body. I was attracted to her the very day I laid eyes on her, drawn into her bright, blue eyes and blindingly-blonde hair. Sam, however, seemed unaware of her own beauty. Truth to be told, she was something of a tomboy, preferring to dress in large tank-tops and long gym shorts that brushed over her knees. Her long locks of hair were always tied tightly to the back of her head in a neat bun. The only exciting element of style she allowed herself was a tattoo of the American flag unfurling over her bare deltoid, merging against the wings of a Bald Eagle that spread over her back. Someday, I hoped, she would show me the rest of that tattoo under her tank top.
The first time I had seen Sam’s living room, she was going through every imaginable problem. Half her life was appointments for fixing her concussion, her girlfriend moved in after months of being away only to break up with her and leave again, and all her friends and family were out of state. I wasn’t sure what to expect that time, but while she texted her parents, I stuck around for moral support, eventually falling asleep on the couch alone. A few more visits since then, and Sam was slowly starting to smile again, but it was a slow process.
“Nice,” I eyed the feast of fast food on the glass coffee table.
“Isn’t it great?” Sam plopped herself on the couch before pulling out her phone absentmindedly.
“How much did this cost you?” I asked. “I can pitch in, you know.”
“You don’t have to worry about it,” her thumbs danced across her phone’s screen, and I jealously wondered who she was texting.
“But you bought food last time too,” I pointed out. “And I don’t want you thinking that I’m some bum ripping you off. I can Venmo you if you like.”
“It’s good Michael; don’t worry about it.”
“Well,” I shrugged, edging my bag onto the coffee table by sliding it past some Chik-fil-a bags. “I did get something…”
“What’s that?”
Pressing the plastic bag’s ends to the side, I revealed my cold, perspiring contribution.
“Is that beer?” Sam was now distracted from texting, staring at the six-pack of brown bottles.
“Sure is,” I said casually. “It’s an import, too.”
“What is that?” she leaned slightly closer, revealing the upper cut of her cleavage as I politely looked away.
“It’s uh…” what was it? I leaned slightly to read the logo. “Bimbo beer.”
“You didn’t know its name?”
“I like picking new beers; I just picked this one because it was all…”
“Sparkly and colourful?”
“I mean, purple’s your favourite colour, right?”
“How do you know it tastes good?”
“We’ll find out, won’t we?”
It was with no small degree of hope and anticipation that I hoped that she would at least try the beer I bought. It wasn’t that it cost ten dollars, I just wanted Sam to loosen up a little. When I was young, I was stiff and uptight, not because I was indifferent to everyone, but because I was shy. It was impossible for me to get out of my shell; there were simply too many logical reasons to not act out or try something daring. That first night I got drunk – on my twenty-first birthday – was the first day I really danced, really flirted with girls, and let go of my self-doubt. Sam reminded me a lot of myself, reserved and proper, her vibrantly-blonde hair bunned tightly to the back of her scalp, and barely a trace of femininity on display. I was… almost… sure she liked me; her inhibitions were just holding her back. A couple beers would do her some good… I hoped. I hoped she tried some…