The bass line from The Police's "Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic" thrummed through the refurbished walls like a heartbeat, carrying promises and contradictions in equal measure. I settled onto my usual stool, watching Miguel's practiced hands work behind the bar, his wedding ring catching the warm light as he reached for the Maker's Mark. The amber liquid caught fire in the glass, swirling like liquid honey mixed with autumn leaves and the faintest hint of vanilla smoke.
Mom, you look like you've been wrestling with demons again, Miguel said, sliding the bourbon across the restored wood grain. His voice carried that familiar blend of sass and concern that reminded me why everyone called me Mom in this underground sanctuary.
Just the usual ones, baby, I replied, taking a sip that burned exactly right down my throat. Nothing a good bourbon and better company can't handle.
Ezra bounced in their beanbag chair, blue hair catching the professional lighting like electric silk. Mom's here! Universe is officially balanced again. Their enthusiasm cut through the heaviness I'd been carrying all day, reminding me why this basement felt more like home than any house ever had.
The kitchen sizzled with Della's latest creation – quesadillas stuffed with poblano peppers and sharp cheddar, the scent mixing with the lingering aroma of her perpetual coffee pot. She emerged from her domain, flour dusting her forearms, and fixed me with that look that could strip paint off walls.
Wendy, quit wearing your shit on your sleeve like some goddamn badge of honor, she called out, wiping her hands on her apron. We can smell the angst from the kitchen.
Keira's laugh rippled from the corner booth where she sat reading, her voice adding texture to the conversation without her needing to look up from her book. She's been brooding since this morning. Something about authenticity and acceptance.
The door's familiar creak announced new arrivals, and I turned to see Marcus pushing through with Sara trailing behind him. His usual confident stride seemed stilted, shoulders carrying tension like a backpack full of stones. Sara – who'd been coming to the bar for months now – looked different tonight, her usual easy demeanor replaced by something brittle and defensive. Her blonde hair was pulled back tighter than usual, and she clutched her purse like armor against whatever conversation was coming.
Hey everyone, Marcus announced, his voice pitched slightly higher than usual. Sara's got some things on her mind tonight.
Sara's smile looked forced, brittle around the edges despite her familiarity with our sanctuary. She'd been here dozens of times before, sharing laughs and stories, but tonight she surveyed the crimson walls and mismatched furniture like she was seeing it all through different eyes.
So this is where you disappear to, she said, and the undercurrent in her voice made several conversations pause.
Renee looked up from the pool table where she'd been systematically destroying Brandon in eight-ball, her biceps flexing as she chalked her cue. Sara, you look like someone pissed in your cornflakes. What's eating you tonight?
River, still in scrubs from their hospital shift, nursed a beer at a corner table with Phoenix curled against their side, ruby ring catching light as they gestured. Sara, you've been quiet since you got here. That's not like you.
Miguel appeared at Marcus's shoulder like magic, already knowing Sara's usual order. Pinot Grigio for you, Sara? Or are we doing something stronger tonight?
Something stronger, Sara requested, her voice tight. Make it a double.
As Miguel worked, Queen's "Somebody to Love" began bleeding through the speakers, and I felt that familiar tug in my chest. Gizmo and I used to belt this one during our Saturday morning grocery runs, her voice hitting notes that made angels weep with envy. The memory stung fresh, reminding me how quiet my house had become.
Mom, you okay? Phoenix noticed my expression, their concern cutting through the general conversation.
Just missing my daughter, I admitted, taking another pull of bourbon. Some songs carry ghosts, you know?
The conversation flowed around us like water finding its level, but I could sense the undercurrent of tension between Marcus and Sara. Usually they sat close together, her hand finding his arm naturally, but tonight she perched on her barstool with deliberate distance between them. He seemed to be performing some version of himself I didn't recognize.
Bubba's deep voice rumbled from the booth where he sat with Sage, who was creating intricate patterns on napkins with colored pens. Relationships are like gardens. They need different kinds of soil to grow proper.
Speaking of growing, Della announced, emerging from the kitchen with a platter of her quesadillas, y'all need to eat something besides liquid courage.
As we gathered around the food, Heart's "Crazy on You" replaced Queen, the guitar work sliding through the room like silk scarves. The conversation naturally drifted toward relationships, identity, and the complicated mathematics of love.
So what's got you wound tighter than a two-dollar watch tonight, Sara? Leila spoke up from where she'd been quietly nursing her beer, her political instincts clearly picking up on the tension.
It's more like... a place where people can be themselves without translation, Leila continued, reading Sara's defensive posture.
Translation? Sara's eyebrow arched.
You know, Phoenix jumped in, their youthful energy bubbling over, like when you have to explain why you exist to people who think your identity is up for debate.
Sara's grip tightened on her double whiskey. I found some things at home. Things that made me question whether I really know who I'm living with.
The silence that followed could have cut glass. Miguel's hands stilled on the bar towel he'd been folding, while Della's spatula hung suspended over the grill.
Sara, Marcus began, his voice strained, we talked about this—
We talked around it, she interrupted. Just like we talked around finding those magazines under your side of the bed.
The collective intake of breath was audible. River's hand found Phoenix's automatically, while Keira finally looked up from her book, her attention laser-focused on the unfolding drama.
Magazines? Ezra asked, their voice carefully neutral.
Sara's face flushed crimson. Gay porn. Men with... other men. And Marcus acts like it's completely normal for a man in a committed relationship to be fantasizing about— She gestured vaguely, unable to finish the sentence.
About half the fucking human population? Della's voice cut through the tension like a cleaver through bone. Because that's what bisexuality means, sweetheart.
I know what it means, Sara snapped. But when you're in a monogamous relationship, aren't you supposed to be, I don't know, satisfied?
Brandon, who'd been quietly sipping his gin and tonic, set his glass down with deliberate care. Sara, can I ask you something? Do you ever find other people attractive? Actors, maybe? Musicians?
That's different—
Is it? Renee's voice carried the weight of experience. Because I've watched plenty of straight women lose their shit over Magic Mike or whatever, and their husbands don't seem to take it as a personal attack on their masculinity.
Remy's Cajun drawl added texture to the conversation: My maman always said, 'Love ain't a pie, cher. Someone else gettin' a slice don't mean there's less for you.'
But it's not just looking, Sara protested. It's... it's the idea that I'm not enough. That he needs something I could never be.
The vulnerability in her voice shifted the energy in the room. I set down my bourbon and leaned forward, feeling my maternal instincts fully engage.
Sara, honey, look at me, I said, waiting until she met my eyes. Marcus being bisexual doesn't mean you're not enough. It means he's attracted to multiple genders, and he chose you. Out of all the people in the world – men, women, everyone in between – he chose to build a life with you.
But the magazines—
Are fantasy, Phoenix interrupted softly. Like romance novels, or movies, or whatever helps people explore parts of themselves. It doesn't mean he loves you less.
Marcus's voice cracked slightly as he spoke: Sara, I've been attracted to men my whole life. That doesn't disappear just because I fell in love with you. But falling in love with you? That was a choice I make every single day.
Sage looked up from their napkin art, their quiet voice carrying unexpected authority: Bisexuality isn't greedy. It's honest about the full spectrum of human attraction.
And honest about how complicated love really is, Bubba added, his deep voice resonating with decades of experience. Back in Georgia, they wanted everything neat and tidy. Man loves woman, woman loves man, everybody stays in their lane. But love don't work like that. Never has.
Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar on Me" started bleeding through the speakers, and I felt another ghost-stab of memory. Gizmo screaming the lyrics in our kitchen while making breakfast, her voice cracking on the high notes but her joy absolutely infectious. I blinked hard, focusing on Sara's confusion instead of my own loss.
The thing is, River said, their voice gentle but firm, sexuality isn't a switch you can flip off when you enter a relationship. Marcus doesn't stop being bisexual because he's with you, just like you don't stop being straight because you're with him.
But what if he leaves me for a man? The fear in Sara's voice was raw, undisguised.
What if he leaves you for another woman? Leila countered. What if a meteor hits the bar? What if the sun explodes? Fear of hypotheticals isn't the same as addressing real issues.
Keira's voice drifted over from her corner: Trust isn't about eliminating possibilities. It's about believing in someone's choice to stay despite having other options.
Miguel refilled my bourbon without being asked, the liquid catching light like captured fire. In my culture, machismo says a man can't be attracted to other men and still be a real man. But real strength? Real strength is being honest about who you are.
And who Marcus is, Della added, waving her spatula for emphasis, is a man who happens to be attracted to multiple genders and who chose to be with you. That's not a threat. That's a fucking testament.
Collins's "Take Me Home" began filtering through the speakers, the synthesizer creating an almost ethereal backdrop to our conversation. Sara stared into her whiskey like it might contain answers to questions she hadn't known how to ask.
I just... I was raised to believe that if someone truly loved you, they wouldn't need anyone else. Even in fantasy.
That's not love, cher, Remy said softly. That's possession. Love don't try to shrink people down to fit in smaller boxes.
Besides, Phoenix added with a grin that reminded me why youth and wisdom sometimes went hand in hand, if we eliminated everyone who had fantasies about people other than their partners, there'd be like three monogamous couples left on the planet.
Sara laughed despite herself, a sound like ice cracking in spring. When you put it like that...
Look, I said, reaching across to touch her hand, I've been married, divorced, and partnered again. I've raised kids and buried dreams and rebuilt my entire identity from the ground up. And here's what I know: love isn't about limiting someone's capacity for attraction. It's about being their choice despite that capacity.
Marcus could be attracted to every person who walks through that door, Ezra chimed in, gesturing broadly, but he's going home with you tonight. That's not settling. That's choosing.
The conversation drifted into quieter territory as people returned to their various activities. Sara seemed to settle more comfortably on her stool, her defensive posture softening as she actually looked around the room instead of through it.
This place, she said eventually, it's not what I expected tonight. I came here angry, thinking you'd all validate Marcus keeping secrets from me.
Most people expect either a den of iniquity or some kind of political rally, Brandon observed with dry humor. Instead they find a bunch of people trying to figure out how to love and be loved without losing themselves in the process.
The porn magazines, Marcus said quietly, his words directed specifically at Sara, they're not about you not being enough. They're about... curiosity, I guess. About parts of myself I never got to explore.
And that's okay? Sara asked, the question genuine rather than accusatory now.
It's normal as fucking hell, Della declared, flipping something sizzling on the grill. Everyone's got parts of themselves they keep private. Doesn't mean they love their partners any less.
As the evening wore on, Sara began asking questions instead of making statements. She wanted to know about coming out, about identity, about the difference between sexual attraction and romantic love. The bar became a classroom where everyone served as both teacher and student, sharing stories and insights with the kind of generous honesty that only happened in truly safe spaces.
You know what the real miracle is? Renee said, leaning on her pool cue as she watched Marcus and Sara sharing quiet conversation in the corner, Not that people are attracted to multiple genders. It's that any of us manage to find someone who gets us enough to build a life together.
Amen to that, River murmured, pressing a soft kiss to Phoenix's temple.
Another round, Mom? Miguel asked, already reaching for the bottle.
Just a small one, I replied, watching Sara laugh at something Phoenix was saying. I want to remember this clearly.
As the amber liquid hit my glass, I reflected on the evening's events. Sara had arrived defensive and suspicious, but she was leaving curious and more understanding. Marcus had found the courage to be vulnerable about his identity in front of his partner. And our chosen family had once again demonstrated the kind of radical acceptance that made this basement feel more sacred than any cathedral.
Mom? Phoenix appeared at my elbow, their voice soft with concern. You've been quiet the last few minutes.
Just thinking about how much courage it takes to love someone completely, I admitted. Not just the easy parts, but the complicated bits too.
Like accepting that your partner might be attracted to people who have different parts than you do?
Like accepting that love doesn't require eliminating every possible threat to your security, I corrected gently. Real love means trusting someone's choice to be with you, even when they have other options.
As the evening wound down, Sara and Marcus prepared to leave together, their body language completely different from when they'd arrived. She walked closer to him now, her hand finding his arm naturally again, her defensive barriers replaced by what looked like genuine curiosity about this part of his world.
Thank you, she said, addressing the room generally but looking specifically at me. I came here tonight thinking I'd found proof that Marcus didn't really love me. Instead, I think I understand better how much he does.
Understanding's overrated anyway, Della called out from the kitchen. Acceptance is where the magic happens.
After they left, the remaining patrons settled into the comfortable exhaustion that followed emotional heavy lifting. Conversations became softer, more philosophical, punctuated by the gentle clatter of Della cleaning up and Miguel organizing glasses.
You think they'll make it? River asked, their head resting on Phoenix's shoulder.
I think they've got a better shot now than they did three hours ago, I replied. Sometimes all people need is permission to stop being afraid of love's complications.
The night drifted toward closing time with the comfortable rhythms of chosen family. People gathered their things, shared final thoughts, exchanged hugs that lasted just long enough to matter. Miguel and Della moved through their closing routine with the practiced efficiency of partners who'd learned each other's rhythms over years of shared responsibility.
As I prepared to head upstairs and eventually home to Keira, I felt that familiar gratitude for this underground sanctuary. In a world that constantly demanded people choose sides, minimize themselves, or perform simplified versions of their identities, The Sanctuary Bar remained a pocket universe where complexity was celebrated rather than feared.
The last song of the evening was Pink Floyd's "Mother," and I felt that familiar tug of missing Gizmo. But instead of dwelling in loss, I found myself imagining bringing her here someday, sharing this space that had become so central to who I'd become. Maybe she'd understand then how love could be simultaneously simple and infinitely complicated.
Miguel locked the door behind the last patron, leaving just the three of us – him, Della, and me – in the amber-lit quiet of our refurbished sanctuary. The evening's conversations seemed to linger in the air like incense, creating an almost sacred atmosphere.
Good work tonight, Mom, Della said, hanging up her apron with the satisfaction of someone who'd fed both bodies and souls. Sara needed to hear what we had to say.
We all did, Miguel added, wiping down the bar one final time. Sometimes I forget how radical simple acceptance really is.
I finished the last drops of my bourbon, tasting the complex notes that reminded me how some things improved with age and patience. Outside, the world continued its complicated dance of love and fear, acceptance and rejection. But down here, in this basement sanctuary, we'd created something different – a space where the full spectrum of human attraction could exist without apology or explanation.
Walking up the stairs toward street level, I carried with me the evening's reminder that love wasn't about limitation but about choice. Sara had learned that Marcus's bisexuality wasn't a threat but a testament to the breadth of human attraction. Marcus had found the courage to be vulnerable about his identity in front of his partner. And our chosen family had once again demonstrated the kind of radical acceptance that made ordinary Tuesday nights feel like quiet revolutions.
"The test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in mind at the same time and still retain the ability to function." - F. Scott Fitzgerald
This evening embodied Fitzgerald's wisdom about intellectual sophistication – the recognition that love and attraction operate in spectrums rather than binaries. Sara arrived believing that Marcus's bisexuality represented a contradiction to their monogamous relationship, unable to hold both his attraction to multiple genders and his commitment to her as simultaneous truths. Through patient conversation, our bar family helped her develop what Fitzgerald would recognize as first-rate intelligence: the ability to understand that Marcus could be attracted to men and women while choosing her, that fantasy and reality occupy different spaces, and that love's security comes not from eliminating possibilities but from trusting someone's daily choice to stay. In this basement sanctuary, we practiced the sophisticated emotional intelligence that allows relationships to thrive amid life's inherent contradictions.
You included a great soundtrack with this one
Excellent conversation in this story. And-again…the music is great!