The man slid up next to me at the bar.
“What are you drinking, miss?” he asked.
I took a look at him. He seemed normal. “Beer,” I answered. But I was confused. Who didn’t know what beer looked like?
“That’s nice,” he said, strangely, as if he was following some kind of script.
I wasn’t sure what to do. “Would you like one?” I asked hesitantly.
“Beer,” he said again, sounding the word out. “That’s nice.”
Now I was worried. “Are you ok? Do you need help?”
He wobbled slightly on his stool, and I instinctively reached out to steady him. I felt a solid band of something metal beneath his shirt. When I touched it, he shifted away quickly.
“No,” he said. “You can’t do that.”
There was a brief flash of light from beneath the fabric, as the metal band began to blink.
“See?” he scolded me. “That’s not nice.”
“I’m sorry,” I apologized. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I thought you were going to fall.”
His eyes focused past me, at something I couldn’t see. “It would have been nice to have a beer,” he remarked before he disappeared with what I can only describe as a “blip”.
I stood up and looked for the bartender. Surely, someone else saw the strange interaction.
I was alone, with only my beer as company. I finished it and made for the exit, still uncertain about what happened. I’d probably return, but only because they have a decent happy hour.