Connor
When I ended the call with Gabe, I walked back into the bar and for whatever reason I was hit with a feeling of imposter syndrome.
The bar was all shadow and whiskey light.
Low ceilings soaked up sound until every conversation felt like a secret. Dark wood ran the length of the room, polished to a mirror sheen by years of elbows and expensive glasses. Behind it, shelves rose like a wall of amber and gold, hundreds of bottles catching the dim glow and throwing it back in pieces. No bright lights here. Just brass sconces, low-hanging pendants, and the flicker of candle flames on each tabletop that made everything look softer than it was.
The carpet was deep red, almost black in places. The leather stools at the bar were worn in, curved to fit you like they already knew you didn't belong. Jazz drifted from somewhere I couldn't see. Muted. Intimate. The kind of music that makes you lower your voice without thinking.
