Cut from a short story I'm working on

After the Paris attacks in 2015 for instance, a lot of people Maggie had studied French literature with in college went on an on about how “Le Carillon” had been their favorite Paris bar. It had been Maggie’s favorite, also. Junior year abroad, she always went there after her classes because they served small baskets of peanuts in their shells and lukewarm drafts of beer that made her feel woozy and romantic. Sure, it could have been her, she thought, but it hadn’t. It hadn’t been her, and it hadn’t been her friends, and it was self-serving and contemptuous to think that having frequented a bar was the same thing as being gunned down inside of it.