Nights like that didn’t happen often, when I wandered the dark and quiet streets of an unfamiliar town. But there I was, alone when it shouldn’t have mattered, yet somehow, it did. I trickled along like a slow leak, a notch above meandering; gravity had become a lateral force that pulled me forward.

Occasional streetlamps brightened their corners, but only seconds were needed to pass from darkness to darkness again. Then a blade of light slicing through a tiny window. I thought someone had left it on by mistake but a closer look revealed it wasn’t a mistake, rather a gathering site of sorts, if not the only one in town, surely the only one open. And a quiet suggestion of companionship began to form, just from knowing I wasn’t alone.

But knowing wasn’t enough.

Before going in, I peeked through the tiny window to get a feel for the place, but what I saw didn’t ease my isolation, it intensified it. A pitiable mix of patrons lined the bar, each sitting apart from the others, their mouths moving only to accept the next draw, and then the next.

I went in anyway, sat among them, became one of them.

In the absence of conversation, beer disappears at a startling pace. After a few, I stood to leave. Everyone seemed to be somewhere else, and it was time I went somewhere else, too. I settled my tab and headed for the exit but stopped when I heard music—had it been playing all along? I wasn’t sure. Then someone squeezed my arm at the elbow, an unexpected gesture that landed like a ripple through still water. “Thanks for stopping by,” he said. “We’re glad you came.”

Glad I came? I mimed the words, unsure if they were meant for me, then scanned the room, the same room I’d spent the past hour, but it wasn’t the same. Maybe my eyes had adjusted, but the lights seemed brighter. Stone faces were now animated. Someone made a toast and mugs were raised to hearty hear-hears. I offered little more than a nod and made my way outside, but managed only a few steps before turning toward the tiny window. I wasn’t sure which version I expected to see but stopped before finding out. Maybe it mattered. Maybe it didn’t. I went back to my hotel instead.

The next morning I asked the clerk about the bar down the street.

“It’s a bit before my time,” he said. “Shut down years ago but you’d never know it. Still looks the same, you can see inside through a tiny window.”

Questions crowded my mind but only I could know the answers, so I opted not to ask. Whoever they were, they were glad I came. To think about it now, I’m glad, too. Not for the beer, not for the company, but for the knowing. And that, as it turns out, was more than enough.

– Foster Trecost