**(Abigail)**
The stools were a little too high, I thought as the bartender flashed me a smile after my second round of scotch. On the rocks, just like my mental state.
The room was different shades of walnut and alder, hardly a fitting setting for the retirees and businessmen over the hump. The surface of the bar was a grey marble slate curved above its wooden stand, where we sat, and dapper jazz played low in our ears.
‘Burgandy Street Blues.’
‘What?’ I responded, head in my palm and elbow on the marble counter.
‘It’s a George Lewis classic. You weren’t even a thought in my mind at that point yet,’ she said, hands orchestrating to the sharp notes of the saxophone.
‘I forget sometimes that you were young once too,’ I murmured with a smile. The alcohol was just starting to kick in, and while I normally kept my wits about me in bars, I felt safe with my mom.