Nachos: Picture this. You're sitting with your closest friends on a perfectly youthful Thursday…read morenight, because you just couldn't wait for the weekend to begin. You're playing some ridiculous game you made up in an instant, and your laughter echoes through the bar, along with the strangers voices and the blaring music. You walk up to the bar, where a mirror stretches across the wall behind the bartenders, and you catch yourself in it, along with a few lingering eyes. You laugh at the audacity of youth, the absurdity of it, and look at yourself a little longer. You're young. Your hair's long, your eyes are dark, your cheeks and nose are red from the cold outside that has settled into your bones. You zone out at any reflection you catch yourself in, because you can feel the time passing. The bartender finally makes their way to you, and you order a plate of nachos that makes its way to your table on its own. There are so many hands reaching in, and you don't even notice when the table started overflowing with new and old friends. You take the first bite, and suddenly you're gutted. They taste incredible, perfectly flavorful. You have no idea where the feeling comes from. It's mushrooms and salsa, perfectly salted. It's relief and familiarity all at once, like the spark of something new that feels good because it's familiar, like it was waiting for you too. You close your eyes and melt into its warmth immediately. You open your eyes and suddenly, everything around you starts to move. Winter coats pile up on the hooks by the door, then disappear into spring. The patio opens with local indie bands, then closes with the sun coming up. The stool beside you fills up with the Irish guy you had the most awkward first date with that you counted the minutes. Months later you run into him again, and you laugh about it together until your stomach hurts. At the table near the windows, a girl you barely knew raises her voice at you over something out of your control, and you realize you don't want this. You cut her off, and she disappears from her seat. You see yourself passing through time in every corner of the bar. Old friends fade into the back of the mirror, and new ones take their seats in the same booths, laughing at the same jokes. The eyes around you linger as they pass. A guy at the end of the bar looks up every time you laugh. Someone holds your gaze in the mirror a beat too long, then looks down at his drink. You notice every one of them and hold on to none, because you can't seem to stay in the moment. Everything is already passing by while you're still standing in it. "SO?! What are you going to rate them?!" says your new friend sitting beside you, who just found out you write these ridiculous reviews for fun. You realize you seek out nachos the way you seek out love. It's a deep, familiar desire. You keep chasing the first bite that made you feel like this. He's waiting for your answer with a big smile on his face. Your hair's still long. Your cheeks are still red. Nothing has changed, but somehow, everything has. "Five," you say. "Five out of five."
All else: I've said enough. This bar is my safe space and happy place. The bartenders are heaven-sent. P.S. I was listening to Chasing Cars by Snow Patrol writing this, hence the drama.
