[Menus. There's one of them in his cupboards, some half-crumpled takeout paper he stuffed into the detritus of address books and old envelopes full of things he never looks at. (They're all blank, when he shuffles through them and discards them, one by one, but the words don't leap out at him and he is nothing if not as adept at lying to himself as he is to anyone else, and so he forgets why the cupboard full of empty pages unsettles him so the moment it crosses his mind.)]
[He can't remember the name of the place, and he can't remember the number either - and for some reason, squinting at the black strip of digits at the top of the takeout menu doesn't make them any clearer.]
no subject
[He can't remember the name of the place, and he can't remember the number either - and for some reason, squinting at the black strip of digits at the top of the takeout menu doesn't make them any clearer.]
[He'll ride it out with muscle memory.]
What else are you thinking?