Walksintoa Pub

Always the same glass. At least, as far as Jack could remember. Always the same white rag tossed over his shoulder. Always the same. Same. Same. Same. Alwaysalwaysalways.

"Jack." 

"Jackie?"

"JACK!" 

Pulling himself out of the spiral, he returned to his body. The bar smelled like beer and sweat. Someone was saying his name? It was the other bartender on shift, Thé Bitberry (of the Summer Bitberries).

"Jackie honey." Thé spoke warmly. "You okay? Sorry to shout. I know you asked me to when you're, uhh, away." Hand on his arm.

"No, it's okay. Thank you." Jack smiled sharply. "And I told you you can if you want to. Didn't ask you to. opt-in, not opt-out. No obligation. Sorry... rambling. Yeah. Thanks, good. Better."

"I like better." Seeing that he was back from wherever he went in one of those moods, Thé slipped her Front-of-House Glammar (patent pending) back on and asked if the vodka and water shots were ready.

"Wait, they were serious? They want diluted vodka?" He was flabbergasted. 

"No old man. They want to play that game where they have to guess who got a shot and who got water." Thé explained. "Different glasses. Not mixed."

"Coming of age rituals often involve silently enduring pain." Jack nodded sagely.

"Okay weirdo." Thé started pulling shot glasses from under the bar. "C'mon big guy. Work time."