Playing with Ballard's Style

I did not realize my attraction for the bartender until I came back a second time.  Waiting for her to prepare my cocktail, I watched her legs – smooth like the steel of the lowboys – pacing back and forth provocatively.   In her hand was something Old Fashion, but her hair was the color and smell of fresh pale ale, and her skin like the soft glow of hefeweisen.  I wished at that moment that we were far away from this place: the smell of fermentation and hops lingered inside the nostrils of every patron.  And there were so many.  How many hours would I have to distill in this wet and wooden tavern until I was the only one left?  The men next to me were probably here for the same reasons.  But I did not look like them – a row of house liquor in a line and used for just about anything.  No.  I was like the finest whiskey around: a single malt scotch, and the bartender: my elderflower liquor.