There’s a place a few blocks from where I live.
Nothing fancy. Wooden floors, low light. Lots of beer on tap. And a great fireplace I never sit by.
I didn’t go there to drink. Not really. Though I did drink. And am currently there now, drinking, writing this.
I went there to not be home.
To not be alone, even if I didn’t talk to anyone.
To sit. Breathe. Exist. Pretend the ache in my gut was just hunger.
I’ve been in darker places.
But that one had lights. Warm ones. And people who didn’t ask too many questions.
They’d say, “The usual?”
I didn’t have a usual, but I said yes anyway.
Because it felt good to be known, even wrongly.
Some days I’d bring a book I wouldn’t read.
Some nights I’d scroll my phone like it mattered.
Sometimes I’d just stare at the condensation on a pint glass and think,
This is the only place I exist right now.
That’s enough.
After a while they started to recognize me.
Not in a big way. Just a nod. A refill before I asked.
A “You good?” that didn’t require an honest answer.
They see a lot of people in a day.
First dates. Breakups. Bad days. Good news. People celebrating. People avoiding going home.
You can tell they know which is which.
I never told them I was struggling.
Never explained the fog and bad weather I dragged in with me.
Didn’t need to.
They made space.
And space was what I needed more than saving.
I still go there.
Not to vanish, but to exist.
To sit at the end of the bar and see if the silence still holds me.
Like scratching a scar to see if it still stings.
They probably don’t know.
But I do.
That’s enough.
And I’ll always tip.
Ghosts of the Navigator 