+5
Mid-afternoon. Creeping into evening, judging by the dimming light outside. You're in a restroom. Just some anonymous restroom, washing your hands; you blink at the tattoo on your left hand, written in your own handwriting. Remember Sammy Jankis. Sammy's story has helped you in better understanding your own, and you probably tell it every chance you get. One perk of anterograde memory loss is that it feels like the first time, every time. But back to the matter at hand: you're in a small, cramped little bathroom, and when you make your way outside after drying your hands, you realize it's a bar.
Look around. Spot several men and women who look to be regulars, but you wouldn't know. You don't even know how often you come here, or if this is your first time. You take a somewhat hesitant seat at the bar, the countertop sticky. Consult your notes, your polaroids-- which, for once, don't provide any answers.
"Can I get a beer, please? Whatever you have is fine." Leonard has never been a picky drinker, and he'd like something to calm his nerves for a bit. It always shakes him, finding himself someplace strange and unfamiliar, and today is no exception.
When the bartender hands him a drink, he takes a healthy sip, briefly making eye contact with the person beside him. He suddenly wonders if he'd already been sitting here drinking a while ago; wonders if he's here to meet someone. Wonders a lot of things.
