denial

“Fill 'er up.” I said.
“Another drink, sir?”
“Yeah, I'll take another.”
The next thing I heard was the sound of the click of the glass on mine, and my eyes were directed towards my cup where I saw the smooth, red flow of sweet alcohol. It was only my third cup. I don't drink often, just when I am particularly inspired to. I haven't been to many pubs either. Since the first time I came here, years ago, I don't even remember how long ago it actually was anymore, I haven't gone anywhere else.
“I see you here often.” said the man sitting next to me. There was nothing distinguishing about his appearance. He was plain, well; I don't remember anymore what he looked like.
“Oh, really, do you? Strange that I don't recall every seeing you here before.”
“You sit in this same stool every Tuesday around eight, every Thursday at four, and sometimes you're here all night on the weekend. You drink at least two, and sometimes more of the same drink each time you're here. Even last night I was telling you about my father who died two months ago. Have you so quickly forgotten me?”
“Excuse me, sir, but I wasn't even here last night. You must have me confused for someone else. And it is getting late. I beg your leave, I must go.”
“Wait, I'm sorry, can I ask you one question before you go?” he said as I was laying the money for my drinks on the bar.
“Well, sure, go ahead.” I said.
“As I said before, I've noticed that you drink the same drink every time you are here, but I don't know which drink it is. What is it called?”
“Denial.” I said turning to walk out the door, and left.
The bartender walked to the spot where my money was laid, and gave it a strange look. He turned to the faceless man in the bar stool directly left to him and asked “Did he just leave?”
“Yes, I believe he has.”
“He only paid for three drinks, he had seven!”

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