Last night, I went out.
Not on the day of, my birthday had come and gone, as I’d hoped it would, quiet and unbothered.
But I’ve learned that the people in my life now don’t take kindly to silence.
They don’t take “I’m okay” at face value.
They don’t let me disappear the way I used to.
So, a few days later, they pulled me out—not with pressure, but with presence.
Another group of close friends who’ve decided they’re going to keep me in the light,
even when I’ve learned to find safety in the shade.
It wasn’t a big thing.
It never has to be.
Just a dinner.
An excuse to wear something better than the soft armor of sweats and a hoodie.
A reason to put on real pants, brush off the nice watch, and step into the world looking like someone ready to be seen,
even if he isn’t.
We went to BJ’s Brewhouse.
Not my spot—but close enough.
A place I’ve been to before, one of the few I feel okay in.
Large, yes. Public, yes.
But somehow, it doesn’t feel like a spotlight.
It feels like a corner where you can sit, breathe, eat, and maybe even laugh a little.
One of the things I’ve always noticed—and quietly appreciated—is how BJ’s handles space.
Most places cater to the groups.
The couples.
The table-for-fours and “Is anyone else joining you?” assumptions.
But BJ’s?
They’ve got single tables.
Not shoved at the bar.
Not wedged between a high chair and the kitchen swing doors.
Actual tables—small, functional, intentional.
They don’t ask why you’re alone.
They just let you be.
I can’t explain how rare that is.
Because when you’re out alone, you don’t just carry solitude.
You carry other people’s stares.
The suspicion. The pity. The questions.
BJ’s doesn’t give you any of that.
They just give you a seat.
And sometimes, that’s all a person really needs.
The staff?
Cheerful, engaging—yes.
But never intrusive.
The kind of servers who know when to smile and when to simply refill your water without breaking the spell of conversation.
That matters more than people know.
In Albuquerque, we have breweries like some places have churches—on every corner, every flavor, and every crowd.
But BJ’s holds its own.
I don’t drink much.
Just a light beer to prime the taste buds,
to keep the appetite sharp, not spoiled.
Something to mark the occasion without blurring it.
I ordered the jalapeño burger.
Spice sharp enough to remind me I’m still alive.
Messy enough to keep things grounded.
A good burger doesn’t pretend.
It tells the truth.
And this one did.
After that came the brownie.
Chocolate. Dense. Almost obscene in its richness.
One of those desserts that makes you pause halfway through—not because you’re full,
but because you need a moment to respect it.
It was indulgent.
And it was perfect.
We ate. We talked.
I laughed more than I expected to.
And in the low hum of that restaurant, surrounded by people who insisted I still belonged to the world,
I felt something I hadn’t felt in a while:
Comfort.
Not the kind you fake for other people.
The real kind.
The kind that says you don’t have to perform here.
My old spot closed a while ago.
The place I used to go when I wanted to be alone but not lonely.
The place where the servers knew me, and I knew the menu by heart.
When that door shut for good, I stopped going out.
But maybe—just maybe-I ‘ve found a new one.
Not because it’s perfect.
But it makes space for people like me.
People who don’t always feel right in crowds.
People who sometimes need a small table and a quiet corner to feel human again.
It’s not just about the food.
It never was.
It’s about finding a place in the world where you can exist as you are—
birthday or not.
By Kyle Hayes
Please Like, Comment and Subscribe
Salt,Ink, & Soul 