Except it’s also nothing like any bar I’ve been to before. For a Monday night in the dead of winter, it’s absolutely packed to the seams. Even bars that host industry nights can’t get this kind of turnout on a Monday, the only night of the week when most restaurants are closed so restaurant workers can go out and let their hair down. Above the bar there’s a neon sign that says kiss the girl in hot pink letters, and many of the patrons have taken this message to heart. Girls kiss on the steps to my right, at a table for two pushed up against the mirrored wall, underneath the mirror ball. Boys kiss in the line for the bathrooms, too. They do shots and take lime wedges from each other’s mouths. Queer folks as far as the eye can see, kissing other queer folk. I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to step inside a bar like this, even before I knew I belonged here, too. There’s so much joy, so much love, in this hot, sweaty space.

I never want to leave.

“Are you Hollywood?” asks a drag king in suspenders and a white tank top with a serving tray loaded with drinks.

“I...yes...well, my name is Sophie? How did you...?” He points across the room to a table near the front of the stage. An Asian man in a Sox ball cap stands on his chair waving at...me, I think. Even though I’m sure I’ve never met him before in my life. I do, however, recognize Wes and his girlfriend, Corrine, seated beside him. Even from my spot on the stairs, I can see the bright pink nail polish on his fingernails as he tucks hair behind her ear. Finally, my eyes fall on Amy sitting opposite them and the sight of her almost makes me turn and run from the room.

She’s had her hair touched up since last night, the fade on the undercut smooth and the lines crisp. Her hair swoops to one side in a tangle of ringlets big enough for me to stick my finger through. Her cheeks and brow line shimmer in the flashing lights and reflection from the mirror balls hanging from the ceiling; her lips are a deep, shiny plum. She looks like a combination of the kind of faerie that exists to tempt humans to eat and drink and dance until they die and all of my Kristen Stewart as a Twilight vampire fantasies combined.

“They asked me to grab you. You can follow me.” He tosses his slicked back red hair into place and moves through the crowd, somehow getting jostled by the crush of people but failing to spill a drop from his tray. My legs follow him, or more accurately, they go to Amy. But I stop a few feet from the table, even as she slides a chair toward me with the toe of her combat boot. She wears a strapless white crop top underneath a leather jacket. Her black jeans are skintight.