He looked at me strangely as I walked out the door, “but they’re so good,” barely reaching my ears. Glasses sat on the bar, half finished, pale rose and straw with a delicate lace still hanging on the sides.
“They were, I know,” escaped from my lips and I continued my path. What else could I say? What more needed to be said? He was hurt that I didn’t finish. But the truth was simple; I had sucked every last bit of joy out of those glasses in a few sips. I didn’t *need* more, didn’t *want* more, but that felt like rejection. Was rejection, to him at least.
The best beers I’ve had this year sat on that counter when I walked out the door. I told him, meant the words, felt the satisfaction, left the tip, crushed his joy. Maybe one day I will learn to say it with enough conviction to be heard.