Oh, and, babe, I'm fist-fighting with fire just to get close to you.
Can we burn something, babe? And I'll run for miles just to get a taste
Must be love on the brain,
That's got me feeling this way.
It beats me black and blue but it fucks me so good and I can't get enough,
Must be love on the brain.
And it keeps cursing my name, No matter what I do
I'm no good without you and I can't get enough,
Must be love on the brain

Love on the Brain - Rihanna

Bridget Westfall welcomed the burning in her throat from the straight vodka she just downed in one hit. Usually a wine drinker, she needed something a little stronger today. A long week at work and an upcoming anniversary had left her feeling burned out and frankly, a little vulnerable. She ordered another, on the rocks, and took another swig, wincing slightly. The bar she was in was filling up quickly, 4pm on a Friday afternoon to thank for that. An commercial indie hit played in the background, sure to be turned up when it was peak drinking time. She hoped she would not bump into one of her students; the last thing she wanted was to appear mildly inebriated in front of one of them. Since leaving Wentworth Prison almost 3 years ago, Bridget had began lecturing in forensic psychology. She enjoyed it and it paid well, but it was not her passion. Her passion was practicing psychology, getting into the minds of the women she helped and making a difference, but she had left that all behind 3 years ago. She had also left behind her heart.

Next week would be 3 years since she made the choice to walk away from Wentworth and each anniversary dredged up unwelcome memories. This was part of the reason she was sitting here, feeling sorry for herself and not wanting to go home to an empty house. Drinking away some of the pain was her plan tonight, for she would no doubt relive each moment in her head. She could remember every single word of the last conversation she had with the person she had done it all for, and that was the hardest thing to remember. She sighed, and wondered what she must look like right now to the outside world - lonely 40-something year old woman, drinking alone at a bar on a Friday. She decided to leave after one more drink. She felt tipsy, and suddenly wanted to curl up in bed and relive some of the good memories, the ones which bought both tears and smiles.

But then she heard it. She heard the laugh that stole her heart and instantly knew who it belonged to. That vivacious, addictive, intoxicating laugh. She turned her head and there she was. All 5 foot 9 of her, raven haired and emerald eyed, Franky Doyle. Bridget stared, unable to move as if a paralysis had taken over her body. Franky was straddling a chair, her arms folded over the back as she laughed at another woman. They looked close, possibly even a couple. She reached over and picked up a bottle of beer, her neck arching back and eyes closing as she drank. The image was both stimulating and heart wrenching. Bridget continued to watch, her heart racing. She was drawn to the vast array of tattoos on both arms, more added since Bridget last saw her. The white short sleeve tee-shirt suddenly looked appetising, and Bridget found herself wondering how Franky looked underneath it. And then it happened. Franky dropped something on the floor, picked it up, and their eyes met.

"Fuck!" Bridget muttered and tore her gaze away, quickly gathering her belongings together to make a swift exit. She tried to stash her purse and phone into her oversized handbag but her hands were shaking and she dropped everything, the contents of her bag spilling onto the sticky floor.

"Shit!" Bridget tried with haste to put everything back in her bag. She succeeded, and tried to make a haste exit. But she was too late.

"Gidget?"