I approached the
bar at Black Warrior Brewing Company, and the pigtailed blonde waitress dressed
in a Crimson Ale T-Town Brewed T-shirt acknowledged me. “Would you like a
beer?”
They had nothing
to offer but beer, so the question seemed bland. Nonetheless, I looked at the
chalkboard listing of their fourteen brews. A greeting like, “How can I spice
up your day would have kicked my enthusiasm into a higher gear. Today had been
one of those to say good night to and dream into the next.
“I’d like a
refreshing IPA. What do you recommend?”
“The red-bearded
guy in an auto-service uniform, hands that spoke of the grit of turning tires,
standing next to me immediately responded with “Blood Orange.”
Pigtail shook her
head no.
“Well, if you want
a local’s opinion, I’ve had three of ’em, but she’s much prettier than me, so
go with her choice.”
“I’d go with the
River Fog.”
A New England IPA
brewed in the South. Wouldn’t it be a Southern IPA? I had crossed the Black
Warrior River to enter the Tuscaloosa City Limits. A deep river with a dense
forest border. I imagined the fog of a misty morning following a dewy night.
Yesterday’s
waterfall trail hike with Melanie went well beyond my expectations. She wasn’t
joking when she said she wanted to shower in the falls, a 125-foot stream of
pelting drops. We ditched our hydration packs, socks, and boots. I stripped off
my Patagonia dry-fit shirt, now soaking wet with perspiration. Melanie hadn’t
broken a sweat; my face was beaded and hot. I needed to lose that extra ten
pounds that settled in my gut after sitting in a recliner—a mental workout for
sure—enduring four weeks of Mississippi sauna heat wave in the comfort of my
coach’s A/C.
She stepped into
the waterfall and looked up, her mouth agape, tasting the crystal-clear
mountain spring water. She was soaked in a cool minute, her shirt a second skin
molded to her curves and protrusions. She was all woman at that moment, even
though she bested me in the boulder scramble to the top.
I just stared. The
sunlight streamed through a break in the forest canopy onto her face glistening
with the refreshment from the fifty-degree pressurized cave water. Then, she
looked at me. A gaze that sliced my heart in two. Sliced. Not ripped. Sliced is
like filleting it wide open. Exposed.
I approached
Melanie in the waterfall. The footing was slippery, mossy on black rock. Almost
goosed it, but I made it look like a purposeful dance towards her. Yeah, I bet
she thought that, too. She smiled, though, relieving the tension within me. She
exuded power in a good way. Like a magnet, I closed in.
The shock of the
cold subterranean water caused me to shout, “Yeee Haaa!” I instantly relaxed
into my natural persona of chill.
She looked down;
I’m not sure why. Was she embarrassed that I could see through her wet skin
shirt? She turned to face away, her muscular back to me. I wouldn’t typically
describe a woman’s back as muscular, but she looked strong, not big-boned, just
lean and ripped. A mountain woman.
Her back to me was
not an afront. Instead, I took it to be an invitation— Come to me.
And so, I did. I
stepped to her and placed my arms around her torso. She melted into my chest,
her neck nestling against mine, cool skin against the heat within me.
—
From
the chronicles of Jeremiah’s Journey, follow Jeremy beginning with Scene 1 –
Mountain Woman, listed in the right sidebar under June 2022.
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