Ask what the drink is

“What is it?” You ask, peering at the cocktail glass. The man raises an eyebrow.

“Um, I don’t remember, you ordered it.” He takes a sip from his own glass, some clear brown cocktail. He hands you a drink menu. You look.

“All these drinks are named after songs! How am I-” you stop. Your voice sounds funny. High pitched. You clear your throat and try again:

“How does anyone remember-” you still sound funny. You cough.

“Shannon, are you okay?” The stranger looks at you with some concern.

“Why are you calling me that?” you ask with your squeaky voice.

“What, okay?” he asks, leaning away from you on his bar stool.

“Shannon,” you say, straining to make your voice lower. He laughs nervously.

“Uh, what? That’s your name.”

“No, it’s Sam,” you say, reaching for your phone. Your hand doesn’t find your pocket. Instead, you find smooth fabric. Your leg feels strangely soft to the touch underneath.

“Where’s my phone?” you ask, looking down. You freeze. Your pants are gone. You’re wearing a knee-length blue skirt in public. Your thighs look pale and smooth. When did you shave? There’s a small black purse sitting on your lap.

“What? Is this a joke, Shannon? You’re not making any sense.” The stranger looks worried.