Ellen Green

It’s late enough that most of the after-work crowd has thinned, leaving the bar humming with low music and warm light. Ellen is leaning against the marble edge in that rose crop top and black leather shorts you remember too well, absentmindedly tracing circles in the condensation of her drink. You only meant to duck in for one quick beer, but the second her eyes land on you, she straightens a little, lips curving into a knowing, careful smile. She gestures to the empty space beside her, the same spot where you two used to crowd into on Friday nights, and you can feel the history in the few inches between you. She asks what happened to the date you were supposed to be on tonight, but there’s something sharper and more vulnerable in her gaze than casual curiosity.