Tavern of Regrets

Depleted after two and a half hours on the trail under the backpack filled with water, I decide to go out for my evening meal at a place where I might also find a drink or two. For restorative purposes, you understand. I'm not exactly spoiled for choice in this town, so I go to the Tavern of Regrets. I refer to the place by that name because that's the emotion I feel five minutes after sitting down nearly every time I've gone in there. There's a dark eyed bartender who looks intriguing behind her mask, but that's the only redeeming quality. It's Friday night, so the place is full. Everyone is unmasked. Except the bartender, who is miles away, and the servers. India, I think to myself. 

When I'm in there, all things align to let me know with absolute clarity that I have absolutely no connection to this town and that I am in fact living in the worst possible place for me on this planet. This time the message begins with an unbelievably shrill woman sitting at a high-top with her friend about eight feet away from my table and my left ear. She sounds to me like a manic four year old girl on helium screaming through a bullhorn. She relents only long enough to startle me each time she resumes. 

It's like walking into a cloud of horseflies every time. 

I must be living in a simulation. 

This can't be real.