The Day Of Swearing (Redux)

It took just a second to remember the date, time and location, before my body was hauled through the flimsy fabric of space and time, all the way back to Fick’s Bar, and the night that had originally symbolised my meeting with the girl of my dreams, but had become, by my own damn hand, a twisted parody of that first encounter.

A parody called The Day of Swearing.

Everything was the same as it was in my untainted memory of that night.
Pungent scent of ale and sweat?
Crazy guy wailing with the bongos in the background?
The ornate clock above the bar that proclaimed the time was 9:23 PM?

The clock part was the only bit of this scene that was different.

The reason behind this difference was that I had met her at 9:30 that fateful night.

This was also the time that I had travelled back to when I had completely fucked up my past, present and future.

So now, I had to intercept the me that was soon to appear, before he-
(me, us, whatever)
-ruined everything all over again…

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