Non-Fiction
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I’ve found myself in a city, a city that I have no true claim to, yet it vaguely matches my memories. I’ve been traversing the streets without navigation and haven’t gotten lost. But my body feels right here.
In this city, I’ve found myself at a surprising number of bars—odd, considering I don’t think of myself as much of a drinker, and I’m not particularly social, and I don’t typically enjoy drinking alone.
The bars have all been dimly lit, eclectic, and overpriced. Each has had different chairs: one sported backless barstools, my least favorite; another had poshly upholstered seats, which I found myself continually sliding off of; and finally, I found peace on a standard high-backed barstool, with a perfectly positioned bar for my feet to rest on.
All the bars have had purse hooks though— a true sign that the times are a-changin’. Gone were the nights of avoiding the mysterious and sticky residue clinging to my bag when I retrieved it from the floor.
I’m now occupying the corner seat at an L-shaped bar that spans the length of this restaurant. It’s dimly lit, of course, and busy, but not too busy. The chatter of the other patrons hums in the background, a comforting buzz that envelops me, convinces me that I belong here, even if just for a fleeting moment in time.
And fleeting it is, really, because I’m only killing a few hours before dinner. A 9 p.m. dinner—because that was the only reservation available. A 9 p.m. dinner at a place I spent two weeks researching, deciding if it was worth the splurge. A place where I, a solo diner, will once again be sitting at the bar.
So really, all the bars I’ve been to over the past few days have been field research, and tonight’s bar is the final case study. I’m spending it with a glass of some orange wine from Georgia (the country) and a book.
I’m sipping my wine and creasing the spine of the new book I picked up yesterday at a bookstore I spent a ridiculous amount of money Ubering to, and I am so content. Because somehow, the stars, or vibes, or whatever, aligned, and there are several other women here doing the exact same thing. We’ve formed our own silent bloc, taking up one half of the bar, very distinct from the middle-aged men posted up at the far end, their eyes occasionally roaming our way, surveying which of us may be the easiest to approach.
Here's the lineup:
A young woman, likely in her early twenties, with a large glass of pinot noir in front of her. Since I’ve sat down, that glass has been refilled twice, and she’s cycled through an order of appetizer meatballs and a bread board with fancy butter. I admired the bread board with fancy butter, watched as she schmeared on almost more butter than the piece of bread could hold with the fancy butter-schmearing knife, contemplated ordering my own, but remembered that I have to save room for my 9 p.m. dinner.
Based on the moody colors and sweeping gothic script adorning the front cover, I can only guess she’s reading this week’s new romantasy novel, and is already halfway through. She’s wearing a deep red sweater dress, her hair long, dark, and perfectly swept over one shoulder. Her eyes don’t leave the page even when she takes a sip of wine or a bite of over-buttered bread. She feels untouchable—surrounded by an aura that tells anyone who dares that their approach is doomed before it begins.
Next to her, one seat intentionally and carefully left in between, is the woman closest to me. She’s in her forties, clearly straight from work, and has definitely had at least three glasses of pinot grigio. She’s preoccupied with her phone, keeps taking it out, putting it away, taking it out again, tap, tap, tapping. I can’t tell if she’s waiting for someone, for a call to tell her it’s time to head home to the kids, or if she’s just a little uncomfortable by herself. Doesn’t know where to look or what to do with her hands, other than slug her wine. I wonder if she wishes she, too, brought a book.
To my left is another young woman, probably mid-twenties. The men at the far end of the bar are interested in her. I know this because a glass of wine appeared in front of her before she even had a chance to slip off her coat and order a glass for herself. The bartender gestured toward the group, men old enough to be her father, and she threw them a tight smile. She took a small sip of the wine because it was there, it was free, and it was safe, poured fresh by the bartender.
When she finally gets her coat off and settles into the barstool, she pulls a book out of the tote bag she’s haphazardly hung on the hook under the bar. It’s a popular new release that I’ve seen in bookstores and podcasts ads. She’s just cracked the cover when one of the men from the far end slips in between us, commandeering the open stool that separated her and I, and starts hitting on her. How he doesn’t pick up on her discomfort—the small smile showing the barest hints of gritted teeth, evasive half answers, forced laughs—I cannot fathom.
I also cannot believe that I am witnessing this in real life. It feels like something out of a rom-com. I feel a bit giddy, actually, because I’ve never seen anything like this unfold in real life.
At one point, the woman mentions where she’s from, and it happens to be the same town I went to college. A town that is hundreds of miles away from this bar in this city. Pure evidence that we do, in fact, live in a small world.
So, I interject. Feeling absolutely like a knight in shining armor, I draw the man’s attention, even just for a moment, so she can feel a little less smothered. He doesn’t care about me at all, but in the briefest moment where his eyes are now on me, uninterested, though they are, she slides a ring from her right hand to her left. And with that, she is saved.
When his attention returns, her escape is crafted. The symbol on her ring finger tells it with quiet authority. After a quick rebuff, he retreats to his original stool, where his friends are already waiting for the story.
The woman and I lock eyes. Hers are full of relief. She whispers to me, “I’m not even from there—my best friend is, it was the first thing that came to mind.”
We shared a smile, and casually return to our books, her secret safely stored away. The chair between us doesn’t feel so empty now.
Back on my right, the woman takes a call. Because I’m so close, I can hear every word, whether I felt like eavesdropping or not. Her husband has finally freed up, wherever he was, and wants to meet for dinner somewhere she clearly doesn’t want to go. She sighs heavily, sadly eyes the fresh glass of white wine that was just placed before her. For the first time since I arrived, she makes eye contact with me, and says, “He made me wait. I’m finishing this glass.”
I tell her, good for her. Tell her, at least we’ve had some interesting entertainment. She nods. Her lips curl into a tight, knowing smile, and we both sip our wine. Her phone remains in her purse for the rest of her stay.
Later, after I’ve finished my Aperol-ish spritzer and my glass (or two) of funky orange wine, an older couple appears in the two empty seats to my right. The kind that radiates well-traveled. The kind that still reads a physical newspaper and absolutely has opinions on bourbon. No seat is left empty between us. The woman’s purse hangs next to mine, casually slung on the hook.
They must smell tourist on me, or maybe just loneliness, because they strike up a conversation almost immediately. We talk wine at first. Then they coax it out of me: yes, I’m a tourist. From the Midwest. And yes, they are these well-traveled people, who have spent time here, there, everywhere, including the same midwestern city I currently live in.
These strangers are so comforting to me. I relish their attention (maybe I’m just a little lonely as well). Their easy friendliness reminds me of my dad, his shameless ability to strike up a conversation with strangers as if they were old friends. This couple sees me, and I feel seen, no longer alone in a wine bar 600 miles from home.
They ask me my dinner plans, applaud my choice, radiate joy that I’m eating like a local, not a tourist. Their approval fills me more than I anticipate my 9 p.m. dinner will. I feel proud to have made these strangers proud. My cheeks burn. It’s definitely not the wine (ok, maybe it’s partially the wine).
The restaurant is only a ten-minute walk up the road, but I wait until the last possible moment to leave. I almost feel guilty saying goodbye to these strangers who have, in some strange way, become my wine bar parents. They ask me if I’m walking. Tell me to be safe. To have a good night. A good meal. A safe trip home.
I bid them a goodnight as well; tell them it was lovely talking with them—and I mean it.
And then, I leave them behind.
It's almost time for dinner, after all.
Kristi Schultz-Wogan is an emerging Indianapolis-based writer exploring and capturing the beauty in everyday, shared experiences. She dabbles in creative nonfiction, poetry, and short fiction— most often centered around her life in the Midwest. Schultz-Wogan’s writing has been published in Turnover Mag—an Indianapolis-based running zine—as well as People We Meet on the Bus, a collaborative zine project. You can find more of her writing on substack @kristisaan.