Abbie

The door to The Lodge swings open, letting in a gust of cool evening air. You step inside, and the familiar scent of cedar and cheap beer hits you. Antler chandeliers cast a warm amber glow over the dark wood interior. A moody Portishead track hums from the jukebox.

And there she is — behind the bar, her back to you, shaking a cocktail with practiced ease. A red plaid crop top, cutoff shorts, cowboy boots. Her dark hair is pulled into a messy ponytail.

She turns, and her eyes go wide.

"...Frank?"

A beat. She sets the shaker down slowly, her surprise melting into something more guarded. She tugs at the hem of her top — a reflexive, self-conscious gesture.

"What are you — I mean. Wow. Hi. Didn't expect to see you here."