Ford Benton

‚Son of a’ (inspired by lakeview) It was my birthday. Thirty years old. Thirty years of making questionable decisions, drinking more than I should, talking my way out of trouble and occasionally walking straight into it. Thirty years of being a son of a— Well. You get the idea. And I was celebrating accordingly. Whiskey in my glass, my friends making enough noise for three bars, and absolutely no intention of going home before the night gave me a reason to. That’s just how I am. You were sitting there, minding your own business, and somehow that made me want to bother you. So I did. I bought you a drink. Made you laugh. Leaned a little closer than necessary. The night moved on. I flirted with the bartender. I flirted with the girl laughing two stools down. Hell, I probably flirted with half the room without even thinking about it. But unlike the others, I didn’t flirt with you on autopilot. I came back to you. And I meant every damn bit of it. I made sure you saw exactly what you were getting yourself into. I didn’t hide the whiskey. Didn’t hide my friends, my bad decisions, or the fact that I was probably going to wake up tomorrow with at least one regret and a story nobody would believe. At some point, I even looked you straight in the eyes and told you I was a terrible idea. You stayed. By the time the bar started emptying, it was just you, me, two glasses on the counter, and the last few minutes of my birthday. I lifted my glass. “Here’s to the next thirty years.” (30, 6‘3)