I would never forget the day I met myself.

Or, the man who claimed to be me. I guess there was no way to know for sure.

It was a Thursday night, about a month and a half before K walked into the bar.

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I was cleaning out the ice maker. I had plenty of ice stocked up in the freezer, but I wanted to get everything clean and ready to go before the weekend. Not that we would be busy. We were never busy. But I liked to be prepared.

The Imp's Bottle bottle was deserted. Surprise, surprise. Kind of depressing, honestly. It'd been a lousy week for me, stuck inside my own jumbled head, and the white noise chatter of some patrons would have been welcome.

Vet and Dottie had come in for a half an hour or so, but they'd left around 10:00. It was now 10:42, and I was beginning to tire of scrubbing. I rolled my shoulder a couple times and stood up.

A man was standing opposite me at the bar. We made eye contact. His eyes were dark brown, like mine. The crinkles around them and the gray of his curly hair suggested he was in his mid-sixties. He wore a plaid shirt similar to mine, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and stood with his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. I hadn't heard the door open, therefore his presence was a surprise.

He nodded at me, his expression a weird mix of pensive and mischievous. "I used to be a handsome devil," he said.

I studied him, my brow creased. "Yeah..." I said, thinking that was an absurd opening statement to make. "I can see it. Sorry, I, um, didn't hear the door."

"It usually squeaks," the man supplied.

"Yeah," I said, taken aback by his intimate Imp's Bottle knowledge. I'd never seen him in here before.

The man nodded. "If you pull up on the handle when you open it, you can avoid that."

"I know," I said, unable to hide my consternation. "I just didn't realize anyone else knew that trick."

"No one else does," he said, his tone carrying significance. He ran his hand through his grown-out curls. "Can I get a beer?"

"Of course," I said. I shook my head. "I'm sorry, I should have offered. What kind?"

The man shrugged amicably. "If you like it, I'll like it."

"Okay," I said. Bewildered, I shook my head again. This neighborhood had the strangest people. As I sifted through the cooler, I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. He was watching me with an intensity that could only be classified as 'spooky.'

Weird.

There were three bottles of my favorite beer left. No one ever ordered it, but for some reason I wanted to keep those on hand. Moving past my favorite, I grabbed a bottle of Michelob Amber Bock. I removed the cap, set out a cocktail napkin, and put the bottle down in front of the man.

"Here you are," I said.

The man chuckled. "You don't like Amber Bock."

"I—" I stammered. What would make him say that? And why did it matter? "It's not my favorite," I conceded. "But it's a good beer. Very popular."

"I've never been one to follow trends," the man said. He picked up the bottle and held it up to the light, like he was checking for a counterfeit. "Amber Bock is more of an acquired taste."

"That's true," I said. I ran my hand through my unkempt hair. "At least, I've heard as much."

The man tipped the bottle in my direction. "I remember hearing that," he said. He took a long swig from the bottle. He swallowed and let out a satisfied sigh. "Lucky for me, you eventually acquire it."

"Excuse me?" I asked, blinking stupidly.

The man chuckled again. "I used to be funny, too."

Was he already drunk? Was he just trying to get a rise out of me? I was never good in social situations, but this guy was making me downright uncomfortable. I knew I'd never met him before, but there was something so familiar about him. The way he carried himself, the way he stood with his hands in his pockets, the way he spoke to me like we knew each other... It was eerie.

"I'm going to keep working on the ice maker," I said with a jerk of my thumb. "It's right under the bar. Let me know if you need anything."

"Heh. Always so diligent," the man lamented.

"Yeaaah," I said. Always? What the hell? I turned away from him, knelt beside the ice maker, and started scrubbing again. I couldn't make heads or tails of him. But then, how did that differentiate him from any of the other unique patrons that came into The Imp's Bottle?

Michael Jackson's "Man in the Mirror" started playing over the speakers. The man began to laugh. It was a soft, polite laugh, but the sound of it unsettled me. I stood up and glanced around, secretly hoping someone else had entered the pub without the door squeaking, and that I wouldn't find my strange new patron sitting alone, laughing at something non-existent.

No such luck.

He perched on his bar stool, Amber Bock in hand, chuckling to himself. No one else in the room.

I stared at him, eyebrows raised.

He raised his eyebrows back at me, his expression one of amusement.

I had no idea what to say. So, I went with the universal, "Everything okay?"

He nodded, taking a swig of his beer. "Oh, yeah. I'm laughing because I was just thinking about this song." He pointed at the ceiling, indicating the speakers. "I like the lyrics. So relatable."

"Are they?" I asked. Frowning, I gave the matter some thought. The song was about awareness, self and universal, regarding the injustices of the world. Make that change, the lyrics instructed. "Yeah...okay...I guess most people feel inspired to help change the world at some point in their lives."

"Most people do. I agree with that," the man said. "But that's not why it's relatable. To me. Right now."

"No?"

He looked amused. "No."

"Okay. I'll bite. Why is it relatable? To you? Right now?"

There was a gleam in his dark eyes that I didn't understand at all. It made me want to fidget.

"Because, right now, I'm actually seeing the man in my mirror," he said.

I blanched. Was that a riddle? If so, it was pretty lame. And way too ambiguous to warrant a specific answer. But he hadn't asked for my opinion, so I didn't give it. Instead, I came up with a witty reply: "...Huh?"

He laughed. "Think about it!" he directed, his face alight. "If you're the man in my mirror, then I must be the man in yours!"

"Yeah. Right. That makes sense." 'Cause...reasons?

"It does. It does make sense," he echoed.

He took a drink and stared at me with elevated eyebrows. I twisted my cleaning rag around my hand and tried to maintain eye contact. Dude wasn't making it easy.

"Sooo..?" he prompted in a sing-song voice.

I blinked. "So? So what?"

"Who am I?"

I scratched the back of my neck. How the hell was I supposed to know? Had he suffered a blow to the head, contracted amnesia, and now expected me to assign him an identity? Actually, his behavior and bizarre phraseology suggested he had, in fact, suffered a blow to the head. But the inflection in his voice suggested something else entirely.

"Don't know..." I said. My wariness was beginning to cause a stomach ache. What was the social protocol for a situation like this? Maybe I should finally open a Twitter account and ask. "I've never been good at guessing games."

He laughed outright at that. "I'm you!" he announced.

Whoa.

Nope, I had not expected that.

"You're...me?" I repeated.

"Yep!" he declared, a jovial expression on his face. "I'm you. From the future."

Whoa. Again.

"Um...how's that?"

"You mean, how is time travel possible?"

"Uh, sure." That wasn't what I meant. At all. But we could start there.

"Oh, you know, a fusion reaction device that hasn't been invented yet opened a portal in the fabric of spacetime that hasn't been discovered yet," he said with a dismissive wave. The tone of voice he employed was the same tone most people would use to explain how to make a PB&J. "I won't bore you with all the long-winded technicalities and science speak."

Of course he wouldn't. Because he clearly had suffered a blow to the head, and didn't know what the hell he was saying. Maybe he was a fan of Philip K. Dick.

"But none of that matters," he stated with a shake of his head. I noticed the way his curly hair flopped over his forehead, just like mine did. "To discuss the how, what, and when is not my reason for being here. It's the why that matters."

"Right. The why."

I knew I was wearing my dumbfounded expression. I could feel it. 'Why' was most certainly the question. But the 'why' I wanted answered was: why, of all the people on Earth that he could claim to be, would he choose the future version of me? If I went full-blown lock-me-up-and-throw-away-the-key insane to the point of claiming to be from the future, I'd say I was a celebrity or a billionaire tech mogul, not an inconsequential bartender from a shitty dive in a depressing neighborhood.

"So...why are you here?" I heard myself ask. (Me-me, not Future-Me.)

"Because you're feeling down," probably-not-Future-Me said, tapping the side of his nose and pointing at me like he knew my most hallowed of secrets. "There's no quick fix, you're already smart enough to know that, but I can tell you that things will get better."

"Huh," I said.

"Yep," he replied, looking pleased with himself.

Super helpful. Vague, fortune cookie advice. This guy, Future-Me or not (I was leaning toward not), was definitely crazy. But, hey, I could continue scrubbing the ice maker in awkward silence, or get some free entertainment. Seemed dumb to choose the former.

"So," I said. I was curious, but also felt like I was about to descend into a rabbit hole that would put Alice's to shame. "What do you do in the future?"

"Your future," the man corrected me. "My present."

"Right," I said, sliding my hands into my pockets. "Right. Of course. So, what do you do in what I perceive to be the future?"

The man who claimed to be me tipped an imaginary hat in my direction. The gesture, so natural coming from him, made me cringe. That was definitely something I would do.

He took a drink and pushed the curly gray hair off his forehead. It flopped right back down. Just like mine always did.

"I rewrite history as the current government sees fit," he told me, his voice flat and earnest. "There's a whole department of us who do it. Whoever controls the past controls the future, after all."

I sniffed. Did he really think I would fall for that? I wasn't many things, but I was well-read. "And whoever controls the present controls the past," I said, completing the quote. "Especially if you've read George Orwell's '1984.' Which I have. Pull the other one."

His face broke into a wide grin. "Knew you'd catch that," he said with a satisfied nod of his head. "Very nice. You're right, of course, that's not what I do. Wouldn't do it even if there was such a job. History is the way it is for a reason. Am I right?"

"You're right," I agreed. "The fabrication of past events is an injustice to everyone who lived through that specific period in time. I wouldn't do that job either."

"Of course you wouldn't, if I wouldn't!" he exclaimed, seeming very pleased with himself. "It's safe to say we have pretty similar taste and opinions on things."

"Pretty similar," I repeated. "Taste can change as a person ages. Opinions, habits, and personalities, too."

"True, very true," he said with a thoughtful nod. "I became more outgoing, so that's a positive change."

"You definitely seem more outgoing than me," I observed. A glaring plot hole in his narrative. "How'd that happen?"

He was nuts, but I figured I may as well play along. I'd been right: free entertainment.

"Met a girl, of course," he told me. A small smile bloomed on his lips and he stared at a spot on the bartop. "Changes everything, meeting the right girl."

Ha. I hadn't met a girl worth mentioning in a long time. "That so? When do I meet her?" I asked.

"Soon," he said. He stared past me at the mirror behind the liquor bottles, the reminiscent little half-smile still on his face. "It'll be soon."

I sighed. Of course it would be 'soon.' A promising, yet incredibly vague term. "But soon is a relative concept," I told Future-Me. "For one person it could mean two years, for another, three days. To me, 'soon' means within the next couple months. What's it mean to you?"

"The same," Future-Me said. "Within a couple months."

My eyebrows shot up. That was quite the prediction. Quite the claim. Maybe he really did believe he was me from the future.

"Can you be more specific?" I asked.

He took another drink. "Afraid not," he said. "If I told you anything more, you'd either jump the gun and end up thinking the wrong girl was the right girl, or you'd fall into depression thinking that you'd missed her completely. No, you can't know anything more. Sorry."

Huh. That was a far more logical response than I had expected from a crazy guy. Pretty impressive.

"Alright," I relented. "In the next couple months, I'll meet a girl."

"You will," he confirmed. "And you'll see me one more time. After."

"After I meet her?" I clarified.

"After we meet her, yeah."

At his ridiculous amendment, I felt a pang of irritation. But also amusement. He was consistent, anyway. Ten points for performance.

He set his empty bottle down on the bartop and took out his wallet. I leaned forward, anxious to see the name on his credit card, but he pulled out six dollars and fifty cents in cash. The exact cost of the beer.

"I'd tip you," he said with a cheeky quirk of his lip, "but I fear it might seem kind of...self serving."

I shook my head and expelled a little sound of mirth. "Nice pun."

"Good one, right?" he asked with a grin. "I spent a minute on it."

"Heading out?" I asked. Where would he go? Back to the future? I wanted to ask, but I didn't.

"Yep. Caused enough trouble for one night," he said. "Take care, huh? Things will get better."

"When I meet the girl," I offered, filling in the blank he'd left open.

"When we meet the girl," he confirmed.

With a parting wave (that did look a lot like mine), he turned and headed for the exit. The door squeaked closed behind him just as "Time in a Bottle" by Jim Croce began playing softly over the speakers.

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