Saturday evening I sat on John Ray’s back porch. It is, by a wide margin, my favorite place in Fayetteville. On it he keeps a well-stoked fire pit and a collection of many of Fayetteville’s finest personalities. There is always Belgian beer, that flowery, yeasty stuff; it’s not my favorite. On occasion, John brings an assortment of craft India pale ales. There is always wine for the women.
I was with the men, each beer-handed, and it was only a slight temptation. The ladies arrived after a time, and they came to the porch with their wine glasses. I smelled the merlot wafting across the porch, the intoxicating perfume. It was an instant temptation.
I left the porch, meandered to the kitchen to let the urge blow over. I listened to Patty Griffin crooning over John’s sound system. I spoke with his wife, Jane, she chopping celery for a creamy dip. I prayed under my breath and the urge passed.
The urges—they do blow over if you give them time.