He got home, first thing he did, he opened himself a bottle of beer. He took a long, deep gulp and thought about how good it felt to cap the day off in such a way. He sat it down and moved to the cupboard. There must be something in there that could accompany this drink.
There wasn't. He turned back to see foam, foam sprouting, the bottle covered, sitting in a pool of its contents. It must stop at some point. At some point, the beer, it will stop flowing out. It will all settle.
It didn't. It kept rising, foaming, escaping. The cap to his day, all over the counter, dripping onto the floor, streaking down the drawers. And he had a very real dialogue in his head, just then, about whether to clean it up with a paper towel or with his lips.
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