He looks more closely at the plates as he takes the syrup from Neil and turns to set it on the kitchen table--they do, he supposes, from the vague flashes he can remember. Memories of the bar are full of odd little scraps of detail. The shine of the wood grain. The hum of a crowd of regulars. Sitting on the deck and smelling afternoon rain.

Fucking Neil in the kitchen, flour and palm oil on his hands. He grits his teeth.

"Be nice to have a place like that here. Have something to fucking do.