I remember when we met in that Santa Monica bar,
I had stopped in to use the bathroom,
Saw the drink specials,
And decided to stay for a bit.
The beach isn't going anywhere, right?
Well, it is, but that's not what I meant.
"Can I help you?" You asked from the bar.
"Uh, do you work here?"
You were blazed by the sun,
And blazed by whatever you had been smoking,
And after a few hours,
I was, too.
"You know," you whispered, "everyone who knew me before that day thinks I'm dead."
You point to a grainy television in the corner of the bar.
I glance up at the screen and you lower your voice again; you repeat what you said in a slow, California drawl that I have come to expect.
Ten years ago. About half my life.
What did he mean?
He turned off the coverage and motioned to my drink.
"I'm done," I said.
"It's on me."
I looked at him closer and saw him clutching the remote control behind the bar.
"Just don't ever forget what I said."