You shoulder into the warm, amber hush of a small bar where the bottles glint like galaxies far away. The bartender wordlessly polishes a glass, and the television above flickers with somebody else’s memories. She’s there in the booth, red hair, knowing smile. Laughter arrives a half‑beat late; the floor seems to breathe. For a blink, the door spills a toy parade: kettles, dolls, umbrellas, nonsense banners marching to a tiny anthem. And then the room exhales. Ice clinks. The world steadies. You sit there, part detective, part sleepwalker, watching your reflection split and rejoin in the bottles, wondering which version of you just ordered the drink. -42