This morning in the shower, for no apparent reason,

she began to think about beer and Toni Morrison.

Her thoughts gained momentum, followed her into

the kitchen and ended up swirling in her coffee cup.

An ugly, but profound revelation inched closer and

closer to inner eyes that she could not turn away

or shield. Somewhere in the darkness a match was

struck and truth's clarifying flame shone through.

She realized that she had become his third beer.

Not the first. So anticipated, craved, needed and

satisfying. The one that brings you home early.

Not the second. That the last drop of the first

convinced you thatyou wanted by whispering,

"It's all good, it's all good."

But, the third beer. The just because beer. The

just for the Hell of it beer. The nothing better to

do, say or prove beer. The beer you don't really

want but it's within easy reach and the DVD still

has twenty minutes to go. That beer. That beer.

The what's the difference beer. The "I paid for it

so it's mine" beer. The selfish "I don't want anyone

else to have it" beer.

The nothing better to do, say or prove beer.

The beer you know will only add inches to your

waistline and make you burp, but is still good for

a quick buzz. That beer. That beer.

She had become his third beer. His nearly

invisible Hagar. His third beer. His not even

thirsty anymore beer. That beer. That beer.

This morning in the shower, for no apparent

reason, she began to think about beer and

Toni Morrison.