Drinking Games

In the mirror above the bar, I knew that he was me, staring curiously back, eyes wide with the surprise of transplantation from one imagined world to another. Clinging loosely about him, his clothes were shabby, disordered, and his hair was similarly ruffled, falling somewhat chaotically over one eye, the right eye, as if buffeted out of place by a gale. Indeed, he bore all the symptoms of having passed through a storm – tiny droplets of moisture, themselves reflecting the face in the mirror,...