A few years ago I was sitting in a bar when a man sat down next to me. One of those people you instantly think of as “pleasant.” Neat, attentive, with a soft smile and a calm voice. Not pushy, not rude — just polite and a little charming.
“What are you drinking?” he asked, like we’d known each other for years.
I ordered a beer. We talked easily, almost without pauses. About work, traveling, the Middle East, Egypt. He said he was a Doctor of Pharmacy — which sounded impressive, solid. He spoke confidently, tilting his head a little, looking at me like he was genuinely interested in everything I was saying.
At some point I went to the restroom. I remember the mirrors, the cold light, my reflection — a little flushed, but completely sober. When I came back, he was still there, smiling.
I took a sip of my beer.
Nice talk, music. And then - nothing. The next thing I remember is morning.
Light through the curtains. White walls. A bed. Calle Soquelle area. And him — sitting across from me with that same smile, like the night had gone exactly the way he planned.
I didn’t remember anything. Not how we left the bar. Not how I got there. Not what happened between that drink and the morning.
It was the first time in my life I had a complete memory blackout without any real reason. Without drinking enough for that to make sense.
I don’t remember that night. But for some reason I can’t forget it either.