He sat in a daze on the deserted beach. As the sun started its familiar path toward the opposite horizon, his only company was the sand crabs that came out of their holes for the morning’s feast of the various marine life deposited by the outgoing tide. The waves, subtly lit by the rising sun, landed on the beach in a mocking syncopation with the pounding in his head.

            With a fog clouding his mind, he attempted to piece together last night: There was the usual, extraordinary dinner at the restaurant. They then left to navigate the snowy roads back to the house that sat behind him. He noticed that his tongue felt swollen and packed in cotton, bringing back a vague memory of the bitter taste to the Bordeaux that they had shared before he blacked out. His brain began to complain as he attempted to focus enough to remember what happened…

            He did remember that they arrived at the house to find everything as expected – the fireplace was burning brightly and the wine had been set out as instructed. They got comfortable before the fire - wine in hand and yes, with that first bitter taste, he had thought that the wine had gone bad, but, since it seemed to be a passing sensation, he dismissed it as his imagination.

            They had not even made it through the first glass when he became drowsy – surely it was just that relaxed feeling after a very good meal, he thought. Soon, however, slumber refused to let go, and he slipped into darkness with the sound of the fireplace in his ears.

            He awoke on the sofa just before dawn to a pounding headache. His mouth was incredibly dry, making speech all but impossible. Unable to call for his companion, he struggled to get up. The dizziness that threatened to engulf him suggested that that was probably not such a good idea. Ignoring the internal complaints, he dragged himself to his feet and looked in the guest bedroom, but she was not there. He looked around for her, but she was nowhere to be found; in fact, there was no trace of her having been there at all. He went from room to room looking, but it was as if she never existed.

            Returning to the living room, the invading sunlight reflected off of a piece of paper held down by last night’s still nearly-full wine bottle. Approaching the table, he picked it up and read it:

            “Please forgive me. I have led you in to a lie from which I cannot escape. It is only fair to you that I leave and that you should forget me. Do not come looking for me.”

The signature went unnoticed as the note fell limply from numb fingers. Reflexively he reached for the bottle which had, until very recently, held down the note that now lay near his feet. As his fingers closed around the bottle’s neck, the memory of that bitter taste returned once more and he left it where it sat, then made his way down to the water’s edge on the beach, hoping that the fresh sea air would help clear the mental fog and quiet the hammers that were pounding the inside of this skull.

            From the house behind him, the ringing of the telephone brought him back through the fog to where he was…. -‘Liber Incognito’