Large bay windows and prominently trimmed storefronts told me I’d entered a more communal part of the city. Then came the bars—one after another—many with bouncers out front. I turned right and found a parking spot tucked in the dark, just beyond the reach of a streetlamp.
I stayed there for a moment, watching groups of college kids pass on the sidewalk just ahead. They couldn’t see me, but I could see them. As I watched, I imagined myself among them—a version of me from a decade ago.
When it was quiet again, I reached for the brown spaghetti-strap sundress—the only thing I had that felt even close to appropriate. I stripped down quickly and slipped it on, then dabbed lipstick on my cheeks and lips. I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror—my eyes, my face. A girl’s laughter pierced the quiet. Her arm was hooked through her boyfriend’s, and the sound made my chest tighten. I looked away, took a deep breath, and opened the door.
I stood in line at Dempsey’s Public House. When it was my turn, I handed the bouncer my ID. He looked at it, looked at me, nodded, and gave it back. Inside, I was hit with a wall of sensation: people packed into booths, leaning over the bar, spilling into walkways. It was too much.
I moved to the wall, pretending to take it all in. But standing still made me feel too exposed. I pushed through the crowd to the other end of the bar. Self-consciousness clung to me like static. I needed something to do, so I lined up for the restroom.
If someone asked—which I knew they wouldn’t—I told myself I’d say I was waiting for a friend. I didn’t know why I needed the lie, but it helped. When it was my turn, I locked the door, stood at the mirror, and stared at myself. I turned on the water, cupped my hands, and splashed my face. The cold helped me decide: I was done.
Unlatching the deadbolt gave me a small sense of relief. I glanced again in the mirror—my cheeks, my lips, my eyes. Hands pressed into my hips, I shifted left, then right, then exhaled deeply. On my way out, I skimmed faces, wondering who had seen my insecurity. Someone must have. As I walked quickly back to my car, that knowing clung to me.
I found a maintenance road that led to a riverbank trail. On the opposite shore, streetlamps lit the path; my side was pitch black. I parked tight beside thick tree trunks, turned off my headlights, and hoped not to be seen.
I sat for a while, watching the eddies of the river catch faint light while a thousand half-thoughts jockeyed for attention in my mind. Distant voices broke the spell—a couple walking across the bridge. At first, their quiet laughter was like the pop and crackle of a fire, comforting. But when they crossed into the shadows and disappeared, the silence returned, heavier than before.
A train startled me awake in the middle of the night. I hadn’t realized I’d parked so close. The sound was massive. I stayed up for a while, ears tuned to every creak and shuffle. I saw another couple walking near the water, their figures lit softly by the lamps. I was scared—not panicked, but enough to stay hyper-alert. Eventually, I drifted off again and thankfully didn’t wake until morning.
Going On 40 
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