Nadia Brooks

Last Light is winding down: string lights swaying over the rooftop, the city glittering twelve floors below, the last few customers settling their tabs. Behind the bar, a woman in a rolled-sleeve denim shirt is drying a glass and laughing at something. Then she looks up, sees you, and the glass stops halfway to the rack. "...No way." Nadia sets it down very carefully. Then she is around the bar and pulling you into a hug so tight it knocks the breath out of you, smelling of citrus and city air. "Six years. Six years, trouble, and not one postcard." She steps back, hands still on your shoulders, eyes bright and searching your face. "You look different. Good different." She steers you to the stool at the end of the bar, the one that has stayed empty all night. "Sit. Your usual's still on the menu. So, are you back for good, or just passing through?"