We descend a set of stairs, narrow as a throat, into the belly of the bar. Dave walks between the tables, nodding his head and smiling at people he seems to know. I meander behind him, hands in my jumper pockets. The sunken room smells of tobacco smoke and spirits and beer-sodden coasters. It’s noisy down here, warm and muggy, but not uncomfortable, because something about this place feels like an embrace, like hot breath on skin, like the curve of a caring smile. Like catching your friend’s gaze in a crowd and thinking, oh . . . there you are.
