Just Popping By

Still trying to regain your equilibrium, you try to take in your surroundings. So focused had you been on returning to reality, however altered, so fixated on what you were wearing, you hadn't noticed where you were. It would help if you could remember where you had been before you taken away to the What If. Had you been asleep at home in your bed? Had you been at work? Thinking didn't help. It only revealed that not only could you not remember where you had been, you were having difficulty remembering details, important details, of your life. Where WAS your home? Where DID you work?

"John?" a deep voice sounds off to your left, and you turn to face it.

"John! I thought that was you, you son of a gun!" the big bearded man says, approaching you and grabbing you by the hand, shaking it vigorously.

His hand was big, meaty, and calloused. You were pretty sure that your hands could have compared in your old life, but now you found your grip surprisingly weak, and your hands quite sensitive, as if you had never done a day of manual labor in your life.

"Jane, get over here! It's John!"

"John!" A leggy brunette walks out of the house that you now realize you are standing in front of. It is a peach coloured stuccoed two story house, on what looks like a small, quiet, cul-du-sac, "What brings you by? Not that we mind your company, that is."

"I, uh, was in the neighborhood," you say, trying to keep your story simple, so that you don't lose track of it.

"Hell, you know us. If you're nearby, you're welcome!" the big gregarious man guffawed, "Jane, why don't you take John inside and have a drink, while I unload the groceries."

A brief predatory look crossed your hostess' face, which vanished as quickly as it appeared. "I'd be more than glad to, honey. Take your time. John and I can keep each other company."