It wasn’t just a flood of memories. I was suddenly drowning in a deluge of remembered sensations—her floral scent that clung to her hair and clothes, the sound of her squeal when I tickled her, and the way I looked forward to seeing her every day at school. The memories seized my lungs, making my chest burn in protest.

It was a good thing she stood with her back to me, lost in her painting, because I couldn’t look away.

I was still totally and utterly lost for her, and it pissed me the fuck off.

I should have known my feelings would remain just as strong now as they had been back then. Sofia wasn’t the type of girl you forgot. She wasn’t like any other girl, period. It was easy to see in her artwork, if nowhere else. Even as a little girl, Sofia didn’t paint rainbows and flowers. Her canvases portrayed flocks of screeching blackbirds or a small ship doomed in the open waters of a raging sea. In her makeshift studio, dressed in tiny shorts and a top that was falling off one shoulder, Sofia painted on a canvas depicting a pile of three skulls.

It was dark, and morbid, and breathtaking.

A part of me wondered what she would do if I were to make myself known. Would her face contort in anger as she relived the awful things I’d said and done? Would she throw her brushes at me and scream for me to leave? Or would it be even worse? Would she look at me with total indifference? The thought lodged in my throat as I stepped back from the doorway.

Regardless of what her reaction would be, I would find out soon enough.

I wasn’t in a rush for judgment day.

I silently made my retreat to the front door and let myself out. After the day I’d had, I was ready to lose myself in a bottle of scotch until the memories were a blurry haze.

The Saddle Bar was a local joint hidden in a basement with hardly a sign to direct new traffic toward its dilapidated entry. The patrons inside were either regulars or folks who had been brought in by a regular. It was where most of the guys I knew hung out, and where I planned to spend the rest of my delightful evening drinking myself stupid.

“Well, look who’s here. Haven’t seen you around in a while. Started to think you found another place to drown your troubles,” called the bartender as soon as I walked in.

“Petey, you know you couldn’t get rid of me that easily,” I shot back as I sat on a stool at the far end of the bar. Pete owned and operated the Saddle Bar and knew just about every man and woman who entered his doors. He helped them get home if needed and conveniently forgot who had been in when questioned by the authorities or angry wives. He had to be pushing seventy, but he was a stand-up guy. He made the place feel like home.