I should remember the bar. I should remember the staff. I should remember the drinks on sale.
I remember nothing.
Yet I woke with a glass printed with its name in my hand.
They remember me. They ask me to leave. They say that I am barred. They say I must never return.
I place the glass on the bar, my hands and head empty.
And no one will tell me anything. And no one will look me in the eye. And no one will return my calls. And no one wants to know me.
So what the hell happened?
Written for Friday Fictioneers from the following picture prompt (see here for other stories):
PHOTO PROMPT © Ted Strutz
