Back inside, the lodge fire crackling like it's auditioning for a Warren Miller film, some guy in a one-piece neon jumpsuit points at me and just says "respect." Doesn't even know my name. Doesn't need to.
The bartender's still watching me from across the room like I owe him a story. I don't. The glasses tell the story for me.
Someone's playing foosball in the corner and the sound of it syncs up perfectly with the beat of "Take On Me," which starts now, unprompted, because apparently the Sunsetters come with their own internal jukebox that only plays bangers recorded before 1989.
I catch my reflection in the window. Mirrored lenses throwing back the whole apres-ski scene in miniature — fireplace, jumpsuit guy, a dog wearing a bandana for some reason. I look like the cover of a VHS tape nobody rented but everybody remembers.
A woman in leg warmers asks if I'm "new here." I am not. I have never felt more like I belong anywhere in my life.
Somebody hands me nachos. I didn't order those either. The glasses are handling logistics now.
