Beer. Talkin God. Amen. (feat. Florida Georgia Line) - Drinkin

"So," Miller started, tracing a ring of condensation on the table. "You still doing the Sunday morning thing?"

The neon sign of "The Rusty Anchor" buzzed like a trapped hornet, casting a low amber glow over the cracked vinyl booth where Chase and Miller sat. Between them stood two sweating longnecks and a bowl of pretzels that had seen better days. Drinkin Beer. Talkin God. Amen. (feat. Florida Georgia Line)

Chase took a slow pull of his beer, the cold crispness hitting just right. "Every week. Still in the third row, right behind your aunt. She still hits the high notes a little too hard." "So," Miller started, tracing a ring of condensation

He raised his bottle slightly. "You don't need a cathedral to have a conversation, Miller. Sometimes a cold one and a wooden table is all the altar you need." Chase took a slow pull of his beer,

They hadn't seen each other since Miller moved to the city for that tech job, but sitting here, the years seemed to peel away like a cheap bottle label.