Whenever I heard one of the others around me mention making a Shirley Temple, I would instinctively look for her. It was like a damn reflex at this point, a twisted Pavlovian response. A thousand faces came and went every weekend, but hers? Hers was the only one that mattered.

I didn’t even know her name at first. Never had the time to ask. The bar was too loud, too crowded, and she was always too preoccupied—either with her drink or, more infuriatingly, with another man. Every weekend, a different one. At first, I thought maybe they were just friends, casual companions for a night out. But no. I wasn’t that naive.