You’re sitting in a bar you half-recognize. A place that feels like you’ve been in before, perhaps more than a few times. But not quite. It isn’t one of those generic mid-scale bars on the avenue or those boutique places on the side streets. There’s a strong sense of the familiar without any sense of comfort from that familiarity.

You’re here because you and your wife had an argument—about trying a little anal play of all things. You and she were having a couple of drinks at home, finishing off the week, and it got warm. You started fooling around on the couch, got her clothes off, and then—not thinking, really—you wet your finger and slipped it oh-so-gently into her ass.

She was off the couch and in your face so fast there was an audible pop as your finger left her asshole.

Oops.

The daydream got way ahead of you, and you forgot that her tiny, star-shaped wonder hole was totally off limits.

Every attempt to apologize was deflected with her repeating angrily that you even thought you could get away with at all, in spite of the ground rules she laid down from the beginning. While the two of you posed for the wedding photos, while everyone was busy eating from the buffet, she was hissing at you that her asshole was completely and totally off limits.

Which meant, she said, that your apologies were nothing but a cover for what you really intended, and she didn’t want to be keyed up, defending her pucker place from your gross intrusions.

So—to avoid the accusations that were on a brainless loop now, and no longer fresh or creative, you offered to step out and give her some space. You kept your voice calm and genial, assuring her you were not storming out in some kind of a snit, which she brushed off by saying you didn’t have any right to be in a snit.

You said you’d be down the block and would come back in a little while.

Taking the stairs, you listened for her to call you back, give you a chance to apologize again, and maybe get back to what the two of you had started.

Once you were on the street, you slumped and fumed, sulked and played out all the ways the last twenty minutes might have gone.

It wasn’t until you’d taken an empty stool in a crowded little neighborhood bar that you realized you didn’t know exactly where you were. It didn’t feel like you’d gone that far, but you didn’t recognize this particular bar, the bartenders, or any of the people in the place. The clack of pool balls was familiar, but not something any of the bars close by had to offer. At least none of the many in the neighborhood you and your wife had frequented over the last couple of years.

You’d like to think she’d be missing you terribly right now, that she would throw on some jeans and a sweater, and come find you, take you back. If she did come looking, it would be much better to be in a place she’d know to find you.

As you’re about to leave, the bartender catches your eye, holding up a drink for you, pointing to an empty stool.

You sidle in, leaning toward him to better hear what he’s saying.

He sets the drink down in front of you and points toward the end of the bar, to a guy nodding in your direction, holding up his own drink in a long-distance salute.

A bit uncertain, you return his salute, signaling your thanks. Maybe you have been in here before.

The face is familiar but not the build. The guy’s a biker from the looks of him. Bearded, tanned, muscled, tattooed, pierced eyebrow and ears, leather vest with understated looping chain. Way too rough looking for anyone you might know—even casually.

Among the rest of the people in the bar, he’s a standout. Nothing like the young corporate types filling the place. He’s drinking alone, but no one seems to pay any attention to him.

Despite his appearance, there is something familiar about him. Almost. Something about the eyes. The eyes are just so—something.

You turn away, take a sip of your drink—whiskey and soda. Exactly what you’d have asked for.

When you look up again, you catch sight of him moving through the crowd toward you. People seem to melt out of his way, but not from any sort of intimidation. More like a welcome fish in amiable waters.

Nearer now, you see what it is about the eyes. Mismatched colors.

Hooper Dooper.

Holy shit.

An imaginary playmate only you could see. But that was back when you were a kid.

Obviously, others can see him in here. He ordered you a drink, so the bartender is able to see him. The people got out of his way, they must be able to see him, too.

As you’re trying to sort this out, he wedges in beside you, with an apology to the guy on your right. He sets his drink down beside yours.

He gestures to your drink, saying “Just wanted to say thanks, man, thanks for the penis and the testicles. I was hoping we’d meet up again.”

Of course it’s him with that voice.

“How is it everyone can see you?”

“I don’t know. You make the rules.”

You tell him you don’t remember him being anything like this, gesturing to the look. Tattoos? Piercings? Muscles?

“It’s just for tonight,” he says. “I’m anything you want me to be. You’ve got me on the clock tonight, remember?”

“On the clock?”

“Yeah! Just like old times, right?”

You’d forgotten he ever existed, but that may not be something you should say right now. So, instead, you say, “We haven’t done anything together in years.”

“You’re telling me. I was beginning to think you’d called it quits between us after the last time.”

“Last time. Right.” You have no idea what he’s talking about.