Brother Beer

I crack my beer and inhale its spray. It smells sort of like worn leaves, and-- I grimace, shiver and gag-- tastes like sour boot polish.

My elder brother grins impishly at me, tilting his pint in cheers. "Don't like the taste, huh?"

I swallow another mouthful. Its burning in my throat as i shake my head fervently in lieu of response, else I puke.

He cackles, taking a swig of his glass. "Come on, man, mom made you of stronger stuff!"

"Guess I take after dad," I reply once the taste is diluted to dirt in my mouth. I grab a handful of peanuts from the bowl on the table, and savour the abundance of salt with my eyes shut contentedly.

The music is vibrant, and the atmosphere clings to my conservative outfit I had chose in discomfort at the prospect of hanging out with my sibling five years my senior, despite there fact its far too hot for long sleeves and I feel my flat-ironed hair curl at the nape from the humidity.

It is the first time we've had fun alone since we were little kids. The last time I willingly hung out with my brother, we had Rescue Heroes and Barbie battles splayed across our carpeted basement, stained with youth and my tears as he knocks my dream house over with his Buster dog toy.

I asked him on a whim, drunk and nostalgic among my intoxicatingly joyous friends to grab drinks to which he soberly agreed to. It's tentative, and a little awkward after a decade. But as I open my eyes, I notice the foam of his pint clinging to his moustache and offer a uneven half-smile. (To me, that is worth more than a fully practiced one.)

He takes notice-- I didn't expect it, but he does, and he grins broadly. It sort of feels like a father making a face just for you to laugh when you're having a tantrum. Like he purposefully asked for a bad pour just for the foam, just for this.

I ball a napkin up and chuck it at his face in thanks.

"You got mom's facial hair." I say warmly, breaking into a laugh as he chucks the napkin ball over his shoulder and hits a patron that looks around in confusion.

My mother jokes the same of herself with us. It's common ground, and we are not being mean. Hitting strangers with pranks is new, but my brother offer a sheepish grin and settles though I laugh, and laugh and laugh.

He blinks at me with that boyish smile forming that screams blue collar momma's boy. I always wondered why my grandma preferred him. I think now, it's just him as he is. The local everyone knew, the guy who jokingly told his kids to cut their leg off if they got a scrape. Someone who brought their mother flowers, and walked their little sister down the aisle.

It's a split second of silence before he's darting over the bar top to grab at my drink. He's faster then I can react, and swallows half of it while I just sit disgruntled. It's no use trying. I know I'll try and successfully steal a twenty from his wallet before we leave, anyway.

He used to do with the beer the same with my coca-cola at my pizza parties. Theres just less crying, now.

(Mine. He'll be puking up tears despite his assurance he's a good role model.

And like this-- stupid and young, he is the best I could ever imagine.)