Perfect Time

It sits there in front of me, catching rays on a beautiful afternoon. Its deep body exploding with bursts of gold as the sun plays on its surface, projecting long blades of color along the white grainy surface of the patio table.

It is not an important day, but it is the perfect time. An afternoon standing still, a stolen moment populated only by faint city noises and the muffled sounds of children playing away in the distance.

What a striking contrast. The comforting warmth of the early summer sun radiating through an almost frozen surface. For no apparent reason, every second instant, some random mist on the surface gathers swiftly into a small droplet, just too heavy for the glass to hold. It inevitably drops, following an arbitrary path along the cold surface and down onto the table.

Atop of my miniature spectacle, a pool of white foam floats softly, undisturbed by the dripping droplets and dancing colors below. It’s sovereign. Immaculate white and light as a cloud, it quietly recesses along the glass surface, like my afternoon moment slowly evaporates away into early evening.

Unnoticeably, the sun reaches the threshold of a nearby building wall. As if trying to linger around for just an instant, it shines desperate smears of increasingly orange light onto the small terrasse. But it’s already too late.

As the sun dies away, my hand reaches for the cold glass. I dip my lips into the soft foam and let in a generous wave of the golden, fresh lager.

As it swirls down inside, it washes away my thirst, my worries and the last remnants of what I hope to be only one of many summer moments.