The basement's warmth hits like a physical embrace when I shoulder through the door, November cold still clinging to my coat like a motherfucking parasite. Cooper’s “Poison" thrums through the restored speakers. The sound system's clarity makes Cooper's voice feel like its coming from inside my chest cavity instead of through decades-old speakers that used to fart static whenever the bass dropped.
Miranda's claimed the corner booth, hunched over a notebook like it's personally offended her entire bloodline. Phoenix sits to her left, their electric purple and gold streaks catching the warm lighting that replaced the old fluorescent bullshit. River's on her right in forest green scrubs, still hospital-sterile and carrying that particular exhaustion that comes from twelve hours of other people's emergencies. Sage sits across from them all, colored pens spread like tarot cards, creating something intricate on a napkin while Van Halen’s “Jamie’s Cryin" bleeds through the space like auditory velvet.
Mom! Ezra's voice cuts through from their beanbag throne, blue hair electric against crimson walls. You look like someone shoved you through a meat grinder and served you back your own ass on a platter.
That's because that's exactly what the fuck happened, I mutter, making my way to the bar where Miguel's already reaching for something amber and promising. His wedding ring catches light as he pulls down a bottle of Woodford Reserve Double Oaked—the good shit that tastes like someone bottled autumn and regret and second chances.
This one's been aging in my heart all day, waiting for you, Miguel says, voice carrying that sultry-childlike contradiction that makes me want to simultaneously hug him and pour him his own drink. You look like you need this more than the bottle does.
The bourbon pours like liquid amber, catching light and holding it hostage. Miguel's precise—two fingers' worth that somehow fills the plastic cup with more weight than the container should hold. The scent hits first: caramelized oak, vanilla bean promises, something darker underneath like burnt sugar and tobacco leaves aged in forgotten barrels.
I take the first sip and it burns perfect—tongue to throat to stomach, warmth spreading like absolution I don't deserve but need anyway.
Rough day? Miguel asks, though it's not really a question. He can read emotional weather patterns like farmers read storm clouds.
Rough doesn't begin to cover the shitshow, I say, taking another pull from the cup. Spent eight hours babysitting an engineer who thinks ChatGPT is a replacement for actual fucking knowledge. Every piece of code he submits is AI-generated garbage that doesn't compile, doesn't deploy, doesn't do a goddamn thing except waste oxygen and my rapidly diminishing patience.
Jesus fucking Christ, Della's voice carries from the kitchen where something's sizzling that smells like salvation. They're paying people to prompt robots now?
Apparently. And I'm the poor asshole who has to explain why 'AI-assisted development' actually means 'I don't know what the fuck I'm doing but I have access to technology that doesn't know either.' The bourbon's working, loosening the knots between my shoulder blades. Motherfucker couldn't debug a Hello World program if the error message spelled out the solution in interpretive dance.
Bubba shifts in his seat by the window, mountain moving with deliberate care. His deep voice rumbles like distant thunder. That the worst of it, or there more shit in this particular sandwich?
The train. Fuck. The memory hits like a fist to the solar plexus, and suddenly the bourbon tastes acidic.
Transit train home, I say, staring into the cup like it holds answers instead of just alcohol. Some fuck-knuckle decided my existence was his entertainment. Called me a— The words stick like burrs in my throat. Called me a fag in a dress. Said I probably have a tiny dick and suck cock better than most women. Made beta male jokes. Didn't even register that I'm actually a woman, trans or otherwise. Just saw— I gesture vaguely at myself. —whatever the fuck his pea-brain processed as threat to his masculine identity.
The music shifts to Til Tuesday “Voices Carry," Amy Mann voicing my own internal fears, and I want to laugh at the cosmic fucking irony of it.
Merde. Remy's cigarette dangles from lips that shape Cajun curses like prayers. He's moved closer without me noticing, bringing Louisiana heat to combat November cold. That kind of connard, he don't deserve the air he breathing, cher.
Yeah, well, he was breathing plenty of it all over the fucking train car, making sure everyone heard his profound observations about my anatomy and sexual preferences. I drain the rest of the bourbon, cup hitting the bar with more force than necessary. Nothing like being reduced to your genitals and sexual function by some asshole who can't fathom that women come in all configurations.
Bubba's hand lands on my shoulder—careful, gentle for something so massive. World full of people who think they know everything about bodies they never lived in. Think they experts on lives they never had the balls to live themselves.
Exactly right, Remy adds, smoke curling around words. My mama, she always say—people who talk loudest about others usually quietest about theyselves. Man making noise about your life? He drowning out noise in his own head, yeah?
Philosophy's great and all, but it doesn't make the words un-heard. I push the cup toward Miguel, who's already reaching for the Woodford. Doesn't change that every day I walk out the door, I'm rolling dice on whether someone decides I'm worth harassing. Whether today's the day someone decides words aren't enough.
The second pour comes without commentary. Miguel knows sometimes silence serves better than platitudes.
Mom, Phoenix's voice cracks from the corner booth, you wanna come sit with us? Miranda's having a whole-ass crisis with poetry and it might be a good distraction.
Miranda looks up from her notebook, face showing the particular frustration of someone wrestling language into submission and losing. Her presence always carries weight—trans woman, mother, MILF energy wrapped in exhaustion and determination. Tonight she looks like she's been through fifteen rounds with a thesaurus and the thesaurus won.
I'm trying to write a sonnet, Miranda says as I slide into the booth, bourbon coming with me. A proper Shakespearean sonnet. Fourteen lines, iambic pentameter, ABABCDCDEFEFGG rhyme scheme. And I cannot get this motherfucker to cooperate.
What's the subject? I ask, grateful for something besides my own shit to focus on.
That's the problem. Miranda's pen taps against paper like Morse code for "help me." I know what I want to say—something about trans existence as both death and rebirth, about killing who you were to become who you are. But every time I try to structure it into iambic pentameter, it sounds like a goddamn greeting card fucked a tombstone and gave birth to awkward phrases.
River laughs—the sound tired but genuine. That's actually a pretty good description of bad poetry.
Sage hasn't looked up from their napkin art, but they speak with that quiet authority that makes everyone listen. Maybe the form is fighting the content. Sonnets were written for love, for beauty, for classical subjects. You're trying to pour revolutionary existence into aristocratic structure.
But that's exactly why it should work, Miranda insists, fire returning to voice. Taking their form and making it hold our truths. That's the whole point—we exist in their world using their language but making it mean something they never intended.
Phoenix leans forward, ruby ring catching light. Read what you have so far. Maybe hearing it out loud helps.
Miranda clears throat, voice shifting into something between spoken word and prayer:
I died before I lived, and lived before—
She stops, pen striking through the line with violence. See? 'Lived before.' Before what? I need something that rhymes with 'more' or 'door' or 'shore' but nothing fucking works. 'I died before I lived, and lived before I knew the name for breathing'—that's eleven syllables when I need ten, and 'breathing' doesn't rhyme with shit I need it to rhyme with.
What if you flip it? I suggest, bourbon giving me courage to offer poetry advice when I'm barely keeping my own writing alive. Instead of death-then-life, what about life-as-death? 'The body that I wore became my cage.'
Miranda's pen hovers. That's... actually not terrible. 'The body that I wore became my cage / And freedom meant I had to burn it down.' That works. That fucking works.
Keep going, River encourages, exhaustion forgotten in the creative momentum.
The Moody Blues fade into Smyth’s “The Warrior"— The song Gizmo and I used to belt in the car during Saturday morning grocery runs, her voice hitting notes that made angels weep with jealousy. My chest tightens but I don't let it show, don't let grief for my daughter's absence contaminate Miranda's creative struggle.
Miranda writes furiously, crossing out, rewriting, muttering syllable counts under her breath. 'I shed the skin that strangled what I am'—no, that's shit. 'I shed the name that strangled'—worse. Fuck.
Sage slides the napkin across the table. They've drawn something intricate—a snake shedding skin, but the skin itself is made of words, letters forming scales that fall away to reveal something luminous underneath.
Miranda stares at it, something shifting in her expression. Holy shit. It's not about shedding. It's about excavation. 'I carved away the lies that sealed my tomb.'
Yes, Phoenix says, voice carrying enthusiasm that reminds me why chosen family matters. That's it. That's the line.
I leave them to it, Miranda's voice rising and falling with syllable counts while Phoenix offers suggestions and River provides medical metaphors about surgery and recovery and becoming. Sage creates beauty from napkin scraps, contributing through art what words can't capture.
At the pool table, Renee's racking balls with mechanical precision, muscles moving under tank top that's seen better decades. Sarah stands opposite, flannel pressed sharp enough to cut glass, boots making authoritative statements against concrete floor.
You gonna break or just admire the geometry? Sarah asks, voice carrying that particular blend of challenge and humor that defines her entire philosophical approach to existence.
I'm contemplating, Renee says. Same thing you do before every statement about life, universe, and everything.
Fair point. Sarah accepts the cue stick Renee offers. So we doing this or dancing around it?
Doing what? I ask, sliding into a chair with my bourbon, watching two women who should maybe be rivals but are choosing something else entirely.
Acknowledging that we're both interested in Erin, Renee says with her usual directness. And deciding whether that makes us competitors or just two people with excellent taste.
Sarah breaks—balls scattering with sharp cracks, two solids dropping. I vote excellent taste. Competition implies scarcity mindset. Maybe Erin's not interested in either of us. Maybe she's interested in both of us. Maybe she's interested in neither and we're both delusional.
Option four sounds most likely, Renee admits, watching Sarah line up next shot. But I've spent too many years being desired for my body and ignored for my heart. If I'm gonna be delusional about someone, at least it's about someone who asks actual questions instead of just assuming muscles equal availability.
She does ask good questions, Sarah agrees, sinking another solid. That's what writers do, I suppose. Dig until they find something real.
Ezra bounces over, blue hair defying physics. Are you two actually bonding over the same woman? Because that's either the most mature shit I've seen or the setup for spectacular disaster.
Why can't it be both? Renee asks, taking her turn. She misses, but doesn't seem bothered. Life's too short to treat other people as obstacles. Sarah's good people. If Erin chooses her, then Erin has good taste and good judgment. If Erin chooses me, then Sarah deserves someone who recognizes what she's offering. If Erin chooses neither of us—
Then we both dodged potential heartbreak and can go get drunk together, Sarah finishes, grinning. See? Mature as fuck.
Della emerges from the kitchen carrying plates that smell like fried divinity—catfish blackened to perfection, mac and cheese that probably contains enough butter to stop a heart but tastes worth the cardiac risk.
Y'all need actual food to soak up that alcohol and bad decisions, she announces, setting plates down with authority. Especially you, Wendy. You look like someone who needs comfort food and to stop carrying the whole fucking world in that death grip you call posture.
Keira appears at my elbow—I didn't see her come in, but that's her gift, showing up exactly when needed. She doesn't touch me, doesn't make a scene, just sits and her presence alone starts untangling knots I didn't know I was holding.
Rough day? she asks quietly.
Understatement. I take a bite of catfish and it tastes like Della's given up on subtlety and just weaponized love directly through food. Work was shit, train was worse, and I'm trying to figure out why I keep walking out the door when the world keeps reminding me it sees me as target practice.
Because staying inside means letting them win, Keira says, voice carrying certainty I can't feel. Because every day you exist visibly, you prove them wrong. Because chosen family needs you here, needs to see that surviving is possible.
Philosophy and catfish. What more could a girl want? But I'm smiling despite everything, despite the engineer who can't code without AI assistance, despite the asshole on the train, despite carrying exhaustion like a second skeleton.
Miguel appears with a third pour—I didn't ask but he knows anyway. This one's on the house. Consider it payment for existing another day in a world that doesn't deserve you.
The music shifts again—Genesis giving way to The Flock of Seagull’s “Space Age Love Song," Score singing about being in love. It feels appropriate for a day that required armor I'm tired of wearing.
Miranda's voice rises from the corner booth—triumph and exhaustion mixed. I fucking finished it. Fourteen lines, perfect meter, and it doesn't sound like a greeting card fucked a tombstone.
Read it, several voices chorus.
Miranda stands, notebook held like sacred text:
The body that I wore became my cage,
And freedom meant I had to burn it down.
I carved away the lies that sealed my tomb,
Extracted truth from suffocating gown.
What strangled most was not my flesh but names—
Dead syllables that murdered who I was.
I swallowed fire to speak my living claim,
Refused the role of specter, ghost, or cause.
Now surgeons cut what nature got half-right,
While chemicals rebuild my blood and bone.
I terraform this body into light,
Reclaim the architecture as my own.
They say I'm made—as if I wasn't, first.
I broke myself to slake my oldest thirst.
The silence that follows isn't empty—it's the weight of recognition, of seeing yourself reflected in someone else's carefully constructed fourteen lines.
Fuck yes, Phoenix says finally. That's exactly it. That's all of it.
River's crying quietly, the kind of tears that come from being seen completely. Sage has added something to their napkin art—Miranda's words incorporated into the snake shedding skin, letters forming the revelation underneath.
That's the shit right there, I say, raising my bourbon. That's what we're all doing, isn't it? Carving away lies to find the truth underneath. Terraforming ourselves into light.
The evening unfolds like this—poetry and catfish, pool games and philosophical bonding, bourbon and chosen family proving that sanctuary exists not just in places but in people willing to witness each other's survival. The train asshole fades, the incompetent engineer becomes distant irritation, and I'm left with this: a basement full of people who see me completely and choose me anyway.
Renee and Sarah have abandoned competition entirely, now collaborating on a pool shot that requires ridiculous geometry and Sarah's lying on the table while Renee lines up the cue and they're both laughing like idiots. Miranda's showing Sage her completed sonnet, talking about submission to literary journals. Phoenix and River are curled together, ruby ring catching light as they whisper plans for Thursday. Ezra's doing dramatic readings of drink descriptions from Miguel's napkin notes. Della's cursing beautifully at something in the kitchen. Keira's reading beside me, her presence steady as bedrock.
Miguel refills my bourbon without asking. The music plays on—classic rock rebellion and survival anthems. The basement holds us all, crimson walls warm as embrace, lighting soft as acceptance.
I drink the bourbon and taste possibility. Taste tomorrow and the day after. Taste the promise that walking out the door tomorrow might be dangerous but tonight proved necessary. Because this exists. This basement, these people, this chosen family built from survivors who decided being seen was worth the risk.
The world outside still contains engineers who think AI replaces actual knowledge, still contains assholes who reduce trans women to their genitals and sexual function, still contains daily violence wrapped in words and worse. But this basement exists too. And for tonight, that's enough.
I finish the bourbon and stand, joints protesting after too many hours sitting in too many offices and train cars. Time to head home, where Keira will follow shortly, where Alex and Charlie will probably still be awake doing whatever chaos teenagers specialize in.
But I'll be back Thursday. Because this is infrastructure, not luxury. This is survival made manifest in plastic cups and philosophical bonding and poetry that proves we exist on our own terms, in our own words, claiming our lives as our own.
And let those who cannot see us stay half-blind.
"We are not defined by what breaks us, but by what we become in the mending." —Megan Devine
The day tried to reduce existence to harassment and incompetence, to being target rather than person. But the evening proved otherwise through Miranda's sonnet—the one she fought into submission through collaborative creativity. Her fourteen lines captured what all of us live daily: carving away lies to reveal truth, terraforming bodies into light, reclaiming architecture as our own despite the world's insistence we're "made" rather than excavated. Devine reminds us that brokenness is not our defining feature—it's what we construct from the pieces that matters. Tonight's mending came through bourbon and catfish, through Renee and Sarah choosing friendship over competition, through Phoenix and River witnessing Miranda's creative triumph, through Bubba and Remy offering Cajun-flavored comfort about train car cruelty. The Sanctuary Bar exists as proof that mending happens collectively, that we become something larger than our individual fractures when witnessed completely by chosen family who understand that survival requires both poetry and profanity, both philosophical wisdom and practical love served hot from Della's kitchen.