Joe entered the establishment, grateful for the sudden blast of air conditioning. It not only cooled him down, but it felt like it cleared his head. At the bar, he ordered a drink, knowing that it was a dangerous way to kick-off the young evening. But he rationalized it by convincing himself that he had real business there. After all, this was the same bar he’d been in last night, when he’d spun out of control. Thus, he was on an investigative mission—or so he told himself.

After ordering his drink he asked the bartender if he could peruse their Lost and Found. Her name was Janice, a brunette lady who had probably a good ten years on him, Joe would guess. Joe always appreciated how she never made any mention of how drunk or ridiculous his behavior may have been on past nights.

“So what are you looking for exactly?” she asked, looking at him with eyes that were sparkling. This was beyond her standard courtesy—she actually looked flirty. It didn’t jive at all with the unflinching businesslike attitude she normally displayed.

“It’s like a… crystal ball,” Joe muttered, attempting to say it jokingly but he was unable to laugh or even crack a smile at the absurdity of his comment.

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, Joe, aren’t you just a wonderful mystery?” she replied, with her eyes still shining. Then she looked through a big cardboard box in a back room but came away empty.

“Sorry, no crystal ball, dear.”

Joe shrugged, and normally he’d fully expect her to take a dig at him, something like, you want to search for your magic wand, too? But it never came. Instead she slowly walked off to service other customers, but she still looked back often, as though checking on him. It was an undue amount of attention.

“I mean, I’m not complaining, but it’s fuckin’ weird,” Joe whispered to himself.

He took a drink and then peered over to the hostess whom he’d walked past on the way to the bar. She was much younger than the bartender, in her early to mid-twenties, and she was downright hot. She’d been looking at him too. She had big, full lips, and messy bangs that worked for her very nicely. And then it hit him—she was the girl from the train. He’d thought she looked familiar. Mystery solved. He exhaled deeply, wondering why he felt so relieved. Oh—he liked her, of course. That was why. Her fashion, and the calm, confident way about her. But more so than anything else—the look she gave him in that moment, which very clearly said she didn’t give a fuck about that hostess job and she’d ditch it in a second to run off and do something wild.

“God, damn,” he whispered, beside himself.

Was it really happening? Did they even know it was happening? He had yet another brief flash that it was all in his mind, which surely he must be losing. It felt like the first step toward insanity—some kind of delusion of grandeur. It manifested itself as an attraction that was never actually there.

“Hey, Joe,” came a voice from behind him. “What’s going on? The ladies getting you down?”

Joe turned around with some alarm.

Roy McKee was there. But he looked more like he normally did, and not like whatever version of him that had been last night. He had on a suit and tie, worn with an end-of-the-day looseness to it—the knot in his tie hung low on his shirt, which was slightly untucked, and his weary eyes yearned for a drink. This was the version of Roy that Joe was accustomed to—the CEO, slightly unraveling at the end of the day.

“Jesus, Roy,” Joe said, lowering his guard. “You haunt this bar in the daytime, too?”

Roy shrugged. “It’s evening. Technically.”

Joe nodded approvingly. “I like how you think.”

“Mind if I sit?” Roy asked.

Joe put his hand out, saying go ahead.

Roy sat down at the stool next to him and ordered a drink. A Beck song carried on in the background as Joe gave a long, relieved sigh—for it was immediately clear that his old friend was back. Roy was Roy again. He thought about asking him what the hell was going on last night, and if that was really him running off with some mystery girl. He knew from all those late night conversations that Roy’s marriage was on the rocks, but still, what he’d seen last night was in a whole other league from plain marriage issues. But he didn’t really want to get into any of that, at least not yet. Joe figured he’d start much more simply.

“So where’s the Yankees hat?” Joe asked him.

Roy was stone-faced. “What are you talking about?” he replied.

“Last night, you were wearing a Yankees hat. And you were acting… really strange. You were talking all sorts of shit, too.”

Roy didn’t reply.

“That wasn’t you, was it?” Joe sighed.

“No,” Roy replied. His drink arrived and he took an eager first sip.

“It looked like you, though,” Joe remarked. “Well, some version of you that was like… toxic. It was weird, man. Unsettling.”

“The Trickster,” Roy said, with one hand rubbing his head wearily.

“Do you know who that is?” Joe asked, feeling his guard shoot right back up.

Roy showed his stone-face again, just for a moment, before then saying, “That’s probably not the best place to start this conversation.”

“So where is the best place to start, then?” Joe turned his attention more fully to Roy, the bottle of beer beginning to feel hot in his hand.

“Why don’t you tell me what’s been going on with you?” Roy asked.

“Jesus, where do I begin?”

“Just say something.”

“My old girlfriend from high school has become lost in time. How about that?”

“I hate it when that happens,” Roy remarked.

“I’m serious, Roy. I first saw her when I was 12 years old. She was an adult somehow. I buried that shit for years, but now I know it’s true.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“Are you fucking with me?”

“No. No, I promise, I’m not.”

Joe sighed, feeling the paranoia bubble up within him, like he still wasn’t yet sure if this was all a big practical joke or not.

“What else is going on with you?” Roy asked.

Joe considered. “How about the fact that the hostess over there keeps eye-fucking the shit out of me, like she’s ready to go right now? I mean, I’m not complaining, but I’m also not delusional enough to think…” Joe trailed off.

“So what have your dreams been like lately?”

“Oh, man,” Joe blurted. He set his beer down. “You really know, Roy? You’re not fucking with me?” He heard the desperation in his voice and it scared him.

“No, I’m not. I can help you.”

“Fuck… am I dreaming right now, then? What the hell is going on with me, Roy? Please tell me.” He felt dizzy on his stool.

“The lines are beginning to blur, Joe. The ones that separate fantasy and reality. That’s why the hostess is eye-fucking you. Because deep down, you want her to.”

Joe exhaled in disbelief. At the moment the hostess was greeting some incoming customers.

He glanced instead over the bar at the mirrored wall beyond all the bottles. He could see his reflection looking back at him. He noticed his eyes shining, his jawline perfectly square and defined, the points of his cheekbones high on his face. Even his hair—thicker and fuller than ever before—these days it seemed to always fall the right away. His body too—he looked undeservedly cut, when if anything his exercising had gone way down in recent months.

“It can’t be real…” he whispered.

“Look, Joe. Here’s the deal. You need to choose.”

“Between what?”

“You chase the fantasy, or… you fight for reality.”

“That sounds like a choice I’ve been trying to make my whole life,” he muttered.

Roy cracked a mile-wide smile.

“What?”

“So, you know what you’re supposed to do, right? It’s the answer you’ll hate.”

“Fuck you,” Joe muttered.

He thought about Danielle again, knowing with total certainty that she too was wrapped up in this, and that she was integral to the whole thing. The other morning she’d been messy and sexy while clambering around his apartment, preparing herself and not even knowing how she’d been annihilating him. Then there was the office today, where she’d been some kind of pristine goddess, able to mess with him like a cat pawing at a toy. She could do whatever she wanted, it seemed. Joe was way overmatched. There was just no contest between him and her—not in that arena.

“There are other fantasies though, right? Dreams? Aspirations? Why does everything always have to be about sex?” Joe asked the question as though it pained him.

Roy laughed. “That’s hilarious. You know that, right?”

Joe wasn’t ready to give in. “Shouldn’t there be more to life, though?” he asked.

“Yeah, probably.”

“So why am I so fucked in the head?”

“You’re not. You’re just like most everyone else.”

Joe stared glumly into space.

Roy continued. “Don’t start thinking that you’re special or exceptional in some way. We’re all in this. I mean, just look around.”

Joe did, and he peered at the people in the bar surrounding them. The happy hour crowd was thickening. He saw the men and women in their various social groups, and how they interacted with one another. He could sense how deep down they were just striving for one particular objective. He could see it—he could read it in their faces. Everything was just a cover for it.

Roy continued. “What is it you spend all day thinking about? On regular days, before all this happened? Is this any different than before? Now it’s just become… magnified. Weaponized, even.”

Joe saw a couple at a small table, a guy in a fashionable suit, his hair neatly trimmed, and a blonde woman in a dazzling summer outfit. They looked relatively fresh with one another, but still perfectly at ease, like it was their second date and it was going very well. They laughed and giggled together, their body language so oriented toward one another it was like watching a nature program—like birds dancing to get a mate.