He recognized her shoulders before her face — the way they sat in a room, like the air around her had been carved out specifically.
She turned, and the seven years between them collapsed into a hallway, a song he’d stopped knowing the words to, the specific way she used to ruin his good shirts on purpose.
“You came,” she said. The bartender pretended not to listen.
“You knew I would.”
“I knew you might.”
Her hand found the back of his neck the way it always had — like she’d left it there in storage and was checking that the lock still worked. It did.
“You still mad?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Good.”