Years ago, in a previous wifetime, my ex and I went to town for a BBQ sandwich on a Saturday afternoon. Naturally, because he's the person he is, we had to stop in the neighborhood bar for a beer or a hundred on the way home. It was just a normal Saturday, I wasn't sick, the barometric pressure was..... oh hell, I don't remember.
I drank ONE BEER. I swear, it was one beer. Suddenly I didn't feel very well. I said to the jerk, "We need to leave." The bartender/owner looked at me and said (pardon my language), "Man, you look like shit." Trust the good old country boys to tell it like it is. I must have indeed looked pretty bad, because my ex didn't even argue. He simply said, "Okay."
I was sitting at a bar stool right in front of the door, so I just swiveled around on my stool and reached for the doorknob. I never made it.
I woke up on the back porch of this little cinder-block establishment. I was lying on a wooden bench in the sun. It was roughly 98 degrees. That's not one of my classic exaggerations. We were in the middle of a heat wave, and when I passed out, those two men carried (or dragged) me out the back door and put me in the sun.
Because they didn't want anyone who came into the bar to think I had passed out drunk.
And then they went back inside to the air conditioning.
I will never know what made me pass out that day. Or why I stayed married to him for as long as I did.