Bowlaway

by Elizabeth McCracken

Arch drank beer ends. The warm of it, the way it went down the middle of your tongue then rolled to the edges bubblier in some places than in others; the way it spread out first at your shoulders and then at your hips. It tasted of bread infused with gold, a flavor inseparable from the way it unlaced his muscles, his way of thinking. It was as though his body ordinarily was a darkened room. Beer turned on the lights, warmed the furniture. Made him happy to be there. Filled him with joie de vivre (which is fatal in nearly all cases). He could drink beer for the rest of his life, he thought.

Its occupant looked like somebody who ate her dinner at midnight.