The Gentle Frenchman
"How nice to see you again. Bonjour," he said. "May I buy you another of what you are drinking? C'est Pernod, n'est-ce pas?" He nodded to the bartender.
She had a lungful of smoke, which she blew out sideways. He had to be fifty, sixty. Her dad's age.
"Do I even know you?" He looked surprised and hurt that she didn't remember.
"We were together on a dive, in 1991. The Islamic wreck off the coast of Turkey. 13th Century."
"I'm sorry, I have no idea what you're talking about," she said. "Turkey?"
Now he realized his mistake. "You very much remind me of my friend. His face sagged.
She shrugged. "C'est d'accord."
A second Pernod arrived, this one without a twist. Absentmindedly she transferred the wedge of lime from the spent glass to the new one.
The conversation appeared to have ended, but something compelled Abigail to continue. "In 1991," she said, "I was in eleventh grade, in St. Louis, Missouri."
The man had receded somewhat into the crowd. He was smiling politely, as if he had not quite understood her words.
"Good luck locating your friend!" she called after him, but he was already talking to someone else.