Memory Lane

“MEMORY LANE, All Trips Non-Refundable” read the sign on the door. I walked inside to find a clean white room with only a front desk, no chairs or ferns or any of the normal strip mall clutter. An old man appeared from a door just behind the front desk. “Welcome to

The Memory Lane. What brings you here, son?” I suddenly felt uneasy. What kind of name of business was this? The old man waited for an answer, but I could hardly breathe. What had taken over me? I then realized... I should not be here.

It was too late for such thoughts, of course. Whether it was right or wrong, I was there. And I was sweating.

Those thoughts were eating my head, I had to pretend to be fine to avoid attracting attention of others

It had been an hour and I was bout to cry I had to find a distraction or something I love. I went into my room and found...

my trusty diary. I quickly scanned for the date in question: August 8, 1988, the fateful night of my alien encounter. I quickly begin reading my frantic handwriting, words jumping out at me: steamy, silent, spheres of illusion. The last line written was a street address.

Damn it, was this a Tinder memory or something more? Perhaps a memory implanted by my abductors to make me doubt myself. I grabbed my jacket and hopped into my old truck, dead set on finding answers at whatever I would find waiting for me at that address.

Finally there I wasn't sure if I wanted to know what's behind the door. My legs are shaking, I'm now hoping for the implanted memory alternative. I grab the door handle, where a playful necktie is hanging, and slowly open the door, just to see what I was hoping not to see

with my unwashed eyes. My grade school sweetheart and my college best friend were playing two-person twister right there on the living room floor. They were both reaching for red when I fainted onto the beanbag chair.