[ Well, out of everything a person might forget, it's pretty fair to forget flamingos. Absolutely weird birds, John's pretty sure, and he can't even recall what they look like. ]

Might have some in the general store.

[ Does he smoke? Maybe, actually. He remembers that: slim pale fingers, the taste of smoke in someone's mouth— is he dating a smoker?— but no, maybe he dreamed that bit. It's getting headachey in the way that means he needs to stop or the nosebleed will be spectacular.

John pivots to the nearest distraction, which is the black teapot he'd been pointedly ignoring. He sets down his empty cup, fills it with definitely-mysterious liquid, and raises his eyebrows at his new friend. ]

At least they gave us wine. Better than this stuff— look.

[ No one has ever picked up a sugar spoon with such eerie relish. John dips it into his cup, swirls it around, and draws back out... a horrifying glop of blood, congealed around the spoon as though magnetized. ]

Seriously, the barkeeps here have wild taste.