My girlfriend and I went on a hike in rural Washington. There was another couple ahead of us, and they were having a lighthearted debate about IPAs. I had plenty of time to listen and become invested in the debate. The hike was very long, and my girlfriend wasn’t in the mood to talk. I don’t know why she wasn’t, but the couple in front of us was. They talked more about IPAs than anyone has ever talked about them. The man was pro and the woman was anti. At first, I was on the man’s side. He made a very convincing argument about the merit of an IPA’s bitter taste, its citrus notes, its hoppiness. Hoppiness sounded nice. And historically speaking, I’ve rarely said no to citrus. I asked my girlfriend if she liked IPAs. She reminded me that she didn’t like beer — that I knew this about her — so, no, probably not. I said okay. I turned my attention back to the couple. The woman pointed out that IPAs are very calorie-dense. She said that personally the bitterness was too much, that she’d rather have a light beer, a Bud Light maybe. The man scoffed. He acted disgusted. The woman said to just wait, because she had more to say. It’s not just the taste, she said. It’s the culture, too. The culture? the man asked. The culture, the woman said. Anyone who prefers an IPA has to make it everybody else’s problem. You can’t just enjoy any old beer; it has to be some fancy ten dollar draft that tastes like orange rinds. The man laughed. He admitted that a beer like that sounded pretty good. He kissed the woman on the lips, and the woman kissed him back. She’d won him over, and she’d won me over, too. I thought maybe I should kiss my girlfriend on the lips. That was one of my favorite things to do. But when I looked over at her, she was busy taking a picture of a fat, black centipede crawling up a tree. The couple in front of us kept talking about IPAs. It was getting harder and harder to hear them because they were walking a lot faster than we were. They said something about a local IPA called Space Dust, how they both had to admit it was pretty damn good. I repeated the name in my head so I wouldn’t forget it. They rounded a corner. I couldn’t hear them anymore, and it made me sick. I told my girlfriend that the trees in this area were very pretty, but I must’ve said it quietly, because she didn’t respond. We rounded the same corner. I could see and hear the man and woman again. They were peering over a cliff’s edge at a wide swathe of trees and a bright blue river that cut down the middle. How beautiful, the woman said. Seriously, the man said. I kept walking. I got closer and closer to the man and the woman. I wanted to hear more about IPAs, but they didn’t seem to want to talk about them anymore. All they wanted to do was point at the trees and the river and snap photos. Will you take a picture of us? the man said to me. I felt itchy and hot. I took his phone, then their picture. I walked past them. They called my name, but they sounded weirdly like my girlfriend. I didn’t say anything back. I kept walking. I kept walking. And then I couldn’t walk any further, because I’d reached the top of the mountain. I didn’t hear my name anymore. I saw so much sky, so many trees, hills and hills and hills. My girlfriend was right behind me. She grabbed my hand, and she leaned her head on my shoulder. She wasn’t in the mood to talk, and I didn’t know why. I stood there thinking about Space Dust.
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Zach Alan Michael sells books in Kansas City, MO. His work has appeared in HAD, BRUISER, BULL, and others.