My Heineken tastes like water.
The keg is fine, the bartender is fine (“What’s it gonna be, hunneh girl?”)—it’s just that I’ve been getting poured on for hours, and now everything tastes like rain.
I’m here in this neighborhood pub, jotting down notes and waiting out the storm, but I forgot that Ko‘olau rain is different. Waterfalls streaming from gutters, the streets slowly growing into rivers—I could be here for hours.
I sigh and look at the men sitting across from me. Neon construction shirt, cowboy hat, cowboy hat, trucker hat, work flannel. I make eye contact with one and I make eye contact with them all. Their gazes remind me that I am an anomaly here in this musty bar.
“Don’t ask me why I’m here, uncle.”
Things seemed fine at one point. Every speed bump and red flag felt like a lesson for me in grace. Make it work, Cara.
Then all of a sudden, I was living in a world so small.
The guy who ghosted me has become my last and only chance at love—fe…