He wasn’t here for the craft IPAs that tasted like pine needles, nor the lukewarm domestic six-packs stacked by the register. He was on a mission. His sister’s "Low-Key Rooftop Bash" was currently at a standstill because someone—Leo—had forgotten the only thing people actually wanted to drink.
He scanned the shelves. His eyes darted past the sodas and the energy drinks until he hit the motherlode: a shimmering wall of slim cans. There they were—Black Cherry, Mango, Lime, and some experimental flavor called "Midnight Berry." where can i buy spiked seltzer
He grabbed two variety packs, the cardboard cold against his palms. He wasn’t here for the craft IPAs that
"Find what you needed?" the cashier asked, barely looking up from a tabloid. "The peace offerings," Leo joked, sliding his card. He scanned the shelves
"Where can I buy spiked seltzer?" he had whispered to the empty car on the drive over, as if the GPS might recognize the desperation in his voice.
The neon hum of the "Quick-Stop Express" was the only thing cutting through the thick humidity of a Tuesday night. Leo stood in front of the towering glass refrigerator doors, his breath fogging the pane.
As he stepped back out into the night, the heavy boxes balanced on his shoulder, he felt like a modern-day hero. The party was saved, one bubbly, five-percent-alcohol-by-volume can at a time.