They left shortly after breakfast, and arrived a little after lunch. They checked in, and were pleasantly surprised. Clean sheets, cable, and the best shower head (no pun intended). They hiked for two hours, with at least 20 minutes uphill. Identifying poop, and random animal noises along the way (zebra, and velociraptor just to name a few). The sun was hot, and so were they. They took in the view up top, then hiked back down thinking of cold beer in their near future.
It could’ve been the perfect date.
The brewery was unsuspecting, but quaint by all accounts. Reminiscent of the bar from Waterboy, with an outdoor/indoor bar and what seemed to be ancient hick artifacts all around. The weather was perfect, and the game was on. They drank, and ate. And drank some more. People watching in between innings, and shit-talking all the time. A double double-date with Jamie and Jack, a winning game, and it was a wrap.
It could’ve been the perfect date.
Back by the room a fire was blazing. One, two, three four. Four couples in their 60s and maybe even 70s surrounded the fire pit roasting marshmallows, and drinking wine. Tipsy from four beers and two shots, they tip-toed over. He made her s’mores, while she talked to the woman next to her. Smacking the sweetness off their lips, and pretending to fit in. After two each, it was time to go to bed.
It could’ve been the perfect date.
Wine and Raw. And Tumblr and Instagram. Plantain chips and fruit belts. And shared pjs. He was handsome. She was beautiful. They were cute. She had dreams, he had goals. He was an asshole, and she was snarky. He was single. She was single. They were single together. It could’ve been the perfect date.
If only they actually liked each other.
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