A Taste of Darkness-1
1176 Words
A Taste of Darkness
Asking a guy you’ve met exactly once to go on a date with you is an awkward proposition at best. At least email saves you the humiliation of getting shot down in public.
From: btownsend @ yahell.com
To: blake_t @ nypd.gov
Subject: Beer tasting
Tristan
I’m not sure we ever actually got around to exchanging names at the party. I’m the demon, was the demon…anyway you get my point or maybe that was points? I was wondering if you would be interested in going to a beer tasting with me. It’s at a place called Hops-n-Scotch (3688 Carlisle Ave). The event is on the 29th of November at 7:30. I could swing by and pick you up or we could meet there.
Brian Townsend
It had been one week since that seriously memorable quickie of sorts in Alicia’s backyard. With a certain amount of trepidation, Brian hit the button to send. Fingers crossed, he hoped he was sending it to the right person and the right address.
* * * *
A reply came the following day.
From: blake_t @ nypd.gov
To: btownsend @ yahell.com
Subject: Re: Beer tasting
Some detective I make. Walking out without so much as a name from you. Don’t tell my Captain, he’ll be tempted to revoke my gold shield and handcuffs. The beer tasting sounds interesting. I better plan to meet you there. My schedule is always whacked. Any chance I could get you to send me a description of what you look like without the make-up? If I show up looking for a guy with red skin, gold hair, and horns, the establishment is probably going to think I’ve already had too much to drink.
Tristan
* * * *
From: btownsend @ yahell.com
To: blake_t @ nypd.gov
Subject: Re: Beer tasting
5’10”, ash blond hair, blue eyes, no fangs. I’ll wear my T-shirt that says—I like my water with barley and hops in it
* * * *
The sign board in Hops-n-Scotch read:
Obovoid—oak aged stout
Franziskaner—hefe weissen
Oerbier Special Reserve De Dolle Brouwers
St. Bernardus Christmas Ale
Ridgeway’s Santa’s Butt
Xingu Black Beer
Samuel Smith’s Winter Welcome
Which one did he want to try first? Brian glanced down the list of beers written on the chalkboard. They all sounded worth trying, and it was probably a good thing he’d taken a cab to the shop. He glanced at his watch. 7:40. No sign of Tristan yet. Was the guy going to stand him up? There hadn’t been anybody in his life since Kyle had dumped him. Had he come across as too damn desperate? One heavy duty make-out session at a party didn’t really even qualify as the start of a relationship. s*x was just…sex.
He heard the tinkle of the bell on the shop door and saw a few people coming in who he was vaguely acquainted with. He’d just about turned back toward the sign board to pick something to try when he caught a glimpse of a tall, dark-haired figure. Tristan. He’d know that mouth anywhere. The detective wore dark slacks and a suit jacket, and he was busily wrenching his tie loose.
Nervously, Brian walked toward him. “Tristan?”
The man turned toward him and smiled. “Brian Townsend?” Brian nodded and the detective held out a hand, saying “Guess we’re both a little uncertain in our civvies. Sorry I’m late. Work just never lets up.”
“It’s fine. More dead bodies?”
“Um…yeah.” Tristan’s tone was guarded and Brian decided maybe he’d better keep away from that topic.
“So on to the beer then?”
“I’m trusting you to make suggestions.”
“Oh, really? That’s a dangerous line.” Brian said with a smile. “I think that led to tasting something rich and thick last time.”
Tristan pressed his lips together for a moment, looking like he was trying to avoid laughing. “Oh, Lord, why do I walk into set ups like that? Okay, suggest a beer for me to try.”
“Have you ever had the Sammy Smith Winter Welcome?”
“Nope. You like it?”
“Always. It’s a seasonal thing. You generally can’t get it except from about November to January. It’s sort of dark but not as dark as a stout.”
“Okay, sounds good,” replied Tristan.
They headed back toward the counter where one of the shop employees was pouring samples.
* * * *
“Oh, s**t, that stuff tastes horrible! It looks like a charcoal briquette dissolved in water and tastes about like it, too,” said Tristan with a gag, after taking a sip of the Xingu. “You actually like it?”
“It’s an acquired taste.”
“Unh, yeah. Steer me clear of that.”
“Moo,” said Brian.
Tristan blinked, and then groaned.
“I’ll steak my reputation that the Franziskaner is a brand you might like better. It’s udderly unforgettable.” Tristan groaned and Brian continued, “I’ll be back in a minute, I need to hoof it to the bathroom.”
The other man just shook his head.
On his way back from the restroom, Brian snagged a handful of unshelled peanuts from the snack table, and walked back toward Tristan while cracking them. He tossed the empty shells into a nearby trashcan.
“So, did you get a sample of the Franziskaner?”
“Yeah, it’s not bad.”
“Cool.” Brian tossed the now shelled peanuts into his mouth, then realizing there were crumbs clinging to his fingers, stuck a thumb in his mouth, too. “Grea’ now my han’s tas’e like peanuth,” he muttered with his mouth full.
Tristan promptly choked on the beer he had taken a sip of. “Tastes like…?” he asked, still coughing.
“Peanuts,” said Brian, swallowing. “What did you think I said?”
“Oh, God, you don’t want to know,” said Tristan. His face flushed bright pink. Suddenly, Brian made the connection and started giggling. “Even I don’t usually come up with one that bad!”
“Unh, well, the bad cow puns reminded me that I’m starving. Lunch was a sandwich at eleven this morning. Would you be interested in looking for a place to eat? I’m sure there’s got to be something within walking distance,” said Tristan.
“Yeah, sure. Since you’re going with the cow theme, I’m guessing you want a burger or a steak or something along that line.”
“A T-bone, a salad, and a baked potato would be magnificent, but I’d settle for just about anything that qualifies as real food.”
* * * *
An Irish-pub-wannabe about two blocks away fit the bill close enough. Brian and Tristan sat in a quiet corner booth, eating and talking. The detective was more than willing to talk about beer, Brian’s job, food—essentially anything but his own life. Brian thought that was a little weird, but maybe the guy was afraid of scaring him off with information about the violence of human nature.
“So what is that stuff you ordered?” Tristan asked.
“Bangers and mash.”
“Which translates into sausages and mashed potatoes, judging from the looks of it. You seemed awfully comfortable with rattling that off to the waitress.”
“I grew up eating them. Good ones are sort of hard to find in this country. Over there, you can go into most any supermarket and have about thirty different types to choose from.”
“You used to live in Ireland?” Tristan asked.
“No, England, and it was my parents, not me. They moved to the U.S. before I was born. Didn’t actually become U.S. citizens until I was almost in high school though.”
“But you’ve been there…?”
“Yeah, every couple years. I have some family over there,” Brian replied.
“Wow. I’ve never even been off the east coast.”
“It’s a cool place.” Brian took a breath and crossed some mental fingers. “Can I interest you in coming back to my place for a drink?”
“As opposed to one ounce samples out of little plastic cups?”
“Yeah, something like that,” Brian said with a laugh.
“No Xingu.”
“How ‘bout a Zuck-u?” asked Brian, and he felt his face flush hot. Jesus Christ, he really needed to install a lever to engage brain before mouth.
It took a second for the comment to register with Tristan, who gave him a slow smile. “I think I could maybe go for that.”
- Writer
