The Reason.

The door to the bar swooshes open, and in stumbles a man who looks like he’s already had a few too many. With him rolls in a rush of cold air, like a cool sheet being flicked above you and settling down over your legs. You can’t help but roll your eyes at this man. Pathetic, you think, taking a gulp from the drink before you.

Of course, you’re here, alone. So who’s the pathetic one? There’s a reason why you’re alone—or maybe a thousand reasons—but does it matter? Being alone is like a brand on the flank of a cow. It’s there, despite why, despite how the cow feels about it.

Besides—and this is the really strange thing—you can’t remember, exactly, why you’re here alone. You know you’re pissed about something. You only ever go to bars when you’re angry. You usually remember why, though. Not tonight. You can’t remember where you were an hour ago, what you did this morning…you just have a burning desire for more beer. Which in itself probably accounts for your lack of memory. Oh well. As long as you keep drinking, who cares about the reason?

The drunk man looks blearily around the bar, sees you, comes over. His stride is uncontrolled, the signs of booze breaking it up, jerking it around; his hip lightly knocks against someone seated at a table. They curse at him, looking over their shoulder, but he pays no attention. At first you think maybe he’ll walk by, but no, he’s clearly making a beeline right for you. You grip your drink a little more tightly, setting your face into a scowl. Maybe if you look like you’re bad news, he’ll take the hint and back off.

No such luck.

“I gotta tell you the truth,” the man says, sinking into the seat beside you. You can’t help but be impressed with the way he just wilts.

“I doubt that,” you answer, not even looking at him.

He studies your face, eyes sunken. A bead of sweat trails down his temple, and he’s breathing a little hard, as if he ran to this bar. As if he’s been running, trying, for another life. There’s something distinctly familiar about the way his lips form his words, the way his hand rests on the table. Was he a client of yours, at one point, perhaps? Maybe you know him through your wife? God help you keep track of her friends…even now, you can’t remember a single one of their names…it even takes you a moment to remember your wife’s name. You set your drink down, thinking you should take it easy. For some reason, thinking about your wife makes you agitated, though you’re not sure why. Did you two have a fight? Is that why you came to this bar? It’s possible. It wouldn’t be the first time alcohol made you completely forget about an argument, so that the next day you acted like everything was fine while she gave you a mysterious silent treatment. Yeah. You should definitely take it easy.

“Listen,” the man says, concentrating to keep from slurring his words, and you look up again. You’d almost forgotten he was there. “It’s not what you think, man…you just gotta listen to me.”

You look around. The exit is directly behind him. You could just get up and leave, but who knows what this guy will do? He might reach out and punch you, for all you know. Besides, despite yourself, you’re curious. And it’s not like you can think of a better place to be. You’ll give him a chance. “Go on, then,” you grumble.

“Yesterday, I talked to her, you know? We just talked. It was okay, everything was okay, and we thought we’d go out to lunch together or something, you know?” the man says, rocking back and forth on his stool a little, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He keeps rambling on as such, about a woman you don’t know and their lunch date. You zone out after a few minutes. Maybe this guy’s just drunk and lonely and needs someone to vent to. Hell, maybe he even thinks he knows you, owes you something. Maybe you’re nothing more than a pair of ears to him. So, what? You’ll humor him. After you order another beer, of course.

“…completely innocent,” the man is saying as you tune back in. “I swear. We weren’t planning nothing. Believe me, man. Please believe me.” He’s staring at you intently, pleadingly.

“Okay,” you answer flatly. “I believe you.”

He blinks. “You do?”

“’Course I do,” you respond.

He sits up a little taller, and continues, far more animatedly than before. Yeah, you think. He definitely just needs someone. Who doesn’t? Wouldn’t you grab at the chance to talk openly to someone, without fear or judgment? Maybe you should try stumbling into a random bar one day, drunk, and chatting up the first person you see. And, damn, the things you’d probably end up saying…you’d probably bear your soul. Confess to every wrong you’ve ever committed.

“And today, dude, I still wasn’t planning nothing,” the man says. “I just got up, showered, you know…thought about stopping by, just to say hey…I mean, hell, I’ve got a wife, kids, you know? I wasn’t gonna do nothing…but she answered the door in this sexy little shirt, hair all mussed up, and invited me in…”

Your interest peaks. This isn’t just some random story. This is getting juicy.

“And I regret it,” he rushes on, “man, I regret it so much. It was never supposed to happen. I…I just…” He runs a hand through his hair, which is dark and wild, messed up by a gust of wind. Or by cheating on his wife, you think. He’s stammering, grasping at the air for words, and finally says, “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, don’t apologize to me,” you say. “Talk to your wife about that.”

“But…” He looks confused. “You’re not mad?”

“I don’t even know you,” you tell him.

“What? Ethan…”

You freeze. “How do you know my name?” you ask, the question that preps your world to fall apart.

The man just stares, and suddenly has no more words.

Like a flash, realization hits you. You remember everything in a bright, vibrant explosion: walking along the sidewalk, shuffling through the slush, rummaging in your pockets for your key. Entering your house, seeing your wife, and this man—this man—the best man at your wedding, your best friend…how could you have forgotten? How can denial have blanketed you, blossomed around you, formed who you are and how you think…?

Denial breaks like glass. You watch as your fist lashes out, severing the delusion, pummeling the reason and connecting with betrayal’s jaw.