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"First time," Abigail replies. "Let me handle it."
Gretel steps aside, letting Abigail take the lead. As the executive arranges the balls in the triangle, Gretel fixates on her seemingly soft hands, meticulously manicured with only a glossy finish. She glances at her own, wondering why she doesn't keep them as immaculate, then remembers she doesn't earn enough for a manicure.
Abigail breaks the game with a crisp, forceful strike, scattering the balls without sinking any.
"Pick your shots. What do you want to drink?" Abigail hands her the cue with such determination that Gretel can't refuse.
"Ever been told 'no' to anything?" she asks without thinking.
Abigail smirks, focusing her eyes as if the question, rather than surprising her, pleased her.
"Sorry," Gretel apologizes, aware that the alcohol is loosening her tongue.
"Don't be sorry. Never regret saying what you think. And no, I'm not used to hearing 'no,'" Abigail admits with a tone so seductive that Gretel isn't sure if she's joking or serious.
"A beer," Gretel says to change the subject.
Abigail confidently heads to the bar and returns with two bottles, placing them on the table with their belongings. Gretel chooses the solid balls and, when she bends down to aim, realizes she must focus to prevent the balls from warping.
"I think I shouldn't drink more," she laughs, then hits the balls, sinking two by sheer luck.
"Wow," exclaims Abigail, "looks like you haven't had enough."
She props herself on the table, lifting one leg to the knee, letting her foot dangle as she offers Gretel a bottle and invites her to a toast.
"To the women who can't stand jerk men."
Gretel laughs, toasts, and takes a long sip that further loosens her inhibitions.
"Actually, I was putting up with it. Now that I think about it, I have no idea why. The relationship had cooled a while ago. I tried, you know?" she says, taking another sip as Abigail listens attentively. "Sometimes I wasn't sure if I wanted to, but then I'd think about the eight years we had together and convince myself I couldn't just toss them aside. Me trying to salvage the relationship while he screwed around with others," she laments, exhaling.
"I'm sorry," Abigail says, unable to look away from Gretel.
Gretel strikes her as a woman both transparent and enigmatic. An air of mystery surrounds her, captivating Abigail without clear reason, as Gretel seems adept at expressing her worries and concerns.
"And you, are you married?" she asks, her cheeks flushed with warmth.
"No, never have been, and don't intend to be, at least not with a man. I have enough dealing with my family," Abigail responds.
Gretel looks at her with wide eyes, nodding as if she understands, though a profound confusion simmers within her.
"Do you like women?" the question spills from her lips before she can contemplate its appropriateness. Yet, she doesn't regret it. She desires to know, especially as Abigail gazes at her with that mix of amusement and seduction, unsettling her.
"I don't just like them, they drive me crazy," Abigail asserts firmly. She steps down from the table, allowing Gretel to take her shot again.
Gretel does, but Abigail's response has left her so nervous that she fumbles the shot clumsily, barely grazing the white ball and causing it to move only a couple of inches.
"It's my turn," Abigail says, extending her hand for the cue.
Leaning over the table, Abigail's presence makes Gretel hold her breath. She wonders if her husband had ever made her feel this trapped. She can't pinpoint what it is about Abigail whether it's her confidence, the magnetic pull that makes everything around her orbit, or that gaze leaving her emotionally exposed. Try as she might, her eyes fixate on Abigail's cleavage. Abigail's shirt has shifted due to gravity, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of her breasts that sparks Gretel's imagination in a way she can't recall ever happening before.
Abigail's precision strikes the ball, leaving the white orb stationary as the striped orange rockets into a corner. The executive straightens, eyes fixed on the table, while Gretel watches, her heart pounding. Abigail rises again, this time from the side, her cleavage hidden, yet Gretel notices the strands of hair cascading down her neck like a gentle caress, suspended in the air. Another shot, another ball sinks. Gretel, typically skilled at the game, feels the alcohol clouding her mind, wondering if it's the reason for the strange sensations Abigail stirs in her.
"Do you ever feel like you're living a life that isn't yours?" Abigail asks, handing Gretel the cue after losing her turn.
Gretel takes the cue, brows furrowed, contemplating, and remains still, gazing at Abigail, who looks back as if they're the only two in the bar.
"Yeah," she nods, "damn right I've felt that."
