How I met Nuni

When I lived in Queens, I drank at a bar down the street called The Mad Donkey. For all intents and purposes, it was my home. More than my apartment, really. My apartment was where I slept. The bar was where I lived.

The manager, Paddy, was my best friend, which meant I usually started my mornings there. I’d show up before the doors opened, while the place still smelled like last night. Lights half on. Chairs still stacked in the corner.

He’d be cleaning, moving slow, getting ready for the day, and I’d sit at the end of the bar with an Irish coffee, planning mine. Or pretending to.

I was a chef — hate that word — at a restaurant on the Upper East Side, and the job never really turned off. Even sitting there, I’d run through prep lists in my head — inventory, orders, deliveries, what I was already behind on before I even walked in.

It didn’t matter where I was. I was always at work.

Every twenty minutes or so, Paddy would stop what he was doing and we’d take a shot of Wild Turkey. No ceremony. No conversation about it. Just a quiet acknowledgment — pause, burn, back to work.

It felt earned, even that early. Like we were already recovering from something.

By the time the first real customers showed up, I’d already been there for hours. Settled in. Buzzed enough to take the edge off, but not so far gone I couldn’t function.

That was the line I told myself I was walking.

Then I’d leave — cut through Queens, up and over the 59th Street Bridge into Manhattan — carrying that same low hum with me. Just enough to make the day feel manageable. Just enough to keep everything from grinding too loud.

It became routine. Automatic.

Wake up. Go to the bar. Drink. Work. Repeat.

I didn’t question it.

I didn’t have to.

At the time, it felt like control.

Paddy never charged me. He didn’t have to.

We had an understanding.

I gave him my time. He gave me drinks.

It was just the two of us for months. Quiet mornings. No crowd, no noise. Just the bar before it became a bar.

I thought that meant something.
I thought it made me different.

Then one morning, Paddy unlocked the door and let two people in.

No warning. No explanation. Just opened the door like it was nothing and waved them inside, locking it behind them like always.

And just like that, it wasn’t ours anymore.

I felt it immediately — this sharp, stupid sting I couldn’t hide. Not anger exactly. Something more embarrassing than that.

Jealousy.

I shot Paddy a look — what the fuck — and he just smiled like I was being ridiculous.

“That’s Ryan. And that’s Nuni. They’re cool.”

I didn’t care how cool they were.

They weren’t supposed to be there.

I stayed on my side of the bar, barely looking at them. Hungover, annoyed, acting like if I ignored them long enough they’d disappear.

They didn’t.

They kept showing up. Every morning, like they belonged there.

I came to learn they did their laundry across the street and needed somewhere to kill time. That was the reason. That was the explanation.

It didn’t matter.

It wasn’t good enough for me.

I had a system. Paddy and I had a system. I was there for him, he was there for me, and that was it. Clean. Simple. Ours.

Now it wasn’t.

Ryan and Nuni took over the other end of the bar — laughing, telling stories, completely at ease. Like they hadn’t just walked into something that already existed.

I tried not to listen. Kept my head down, ran through my prep list over and over, like I could out-focus them.

I couldn’t.

They were loud in that effortless way — like people who aren’t thinking about how they’re being perceived. It grated on me. Not just the noise — the ease of it.

After a few weeks, I knew everything about them without ever speaking to them.

Same restaurant. Same schedule. Same long days ahead of them.

They were living a version of my life —
just… lighter.

And that’s what really got to me.

Not that they were there.

That they seemed fine.

I was far from fine.

Cooking all day, drinking constantly, snorting whatever I could get my hands on — it was catching up to me. My back hurt like hell. I was exhausted. Wired and dead at the same time.

And I was angry. Always.

That’s what Paddy and I had in common.

We didn’t talk about anything real — we just circled the same complaints over and over. Our jobs, our bosses, the city, other people. It was easier to hate everything than deal with what was actually going on.

So we drank.

That was the system.

That was the bond.

And then they showed up.

And suddenly the bar wasn’t heavy anymore.

It was… light.

They laughed. They told stories. They didn’t seem like they were dragging anything behind them. No edge. No bitterness. Just… ease.

And I couldn’t stand it.

Not because they were doing anything wrong —
but because they weren’t as fucked up as I was.

Especially Nuni.

She radiated it. Joy. Effortless, loud, impossible to ignore.

Paddy would light up the second he saw her.

“Nooner!” he’d yell, unlocking the door.

“Paddy Cakes!” she’d fire back.

Then the hugs. Big, genuine, no hesitation. Like they actually liked being alive.

I’d sit there watching it, stewing.

Who is this person? And why does he love her more than me?

I convinced myself there had to be something going on. It made more sense than the alternative.

So one morning I asked.

“What’s up with you and Nuni?”

Paddy didn’t even look up.
“Nothing. She’s just the best.”

“So you’re not together?”

He finally looked at me, half amused.
“No, you idiot.”

A beat.

“I’ve been waiting for you to talk to her. You’d like her.”

I just stared at him.

“So this whole thing — ” I gestured down the bar, at them, at all of it — “this is for me?”

He shrugged.

“Finally, you get it.”

I felt ridiculous.

“You think I should scoot down?”

“Yes, dummy. We’ve all been waiting for you.”

That stuck with me more than I wanted it to.

We’ve all been waiting for you.

Like I’d been the problem the whole time. Which, of course, I had.

The next morning, I got there early and sat in the middle of the bar — a place I’d only ever ended up if I had no other option. It felt exposed. Wrong. Like I’d taken a seat I hadn’t earned.

I kept looking at the door, already second-guessing it. Thinking about sliding back to my corner before they showed up. Pretending none of this ever happened.

But I stayed.

When they walked in, they both paused for a second.

Not dramatic. Just enough to notice.

“Look who finally switched seats,” Ryan said, smiling like he’d been expecting it.

“I’m Sam,” I said, reaching out my hand, immediately aware of how formal it sounded. Like I was introducing myself at a job interview instead of a bar I basically lived in.

“I know, Sam,” she said, taking my hand. There was a smirk there — not mean, just knowing. “I’m Nuni.”

She held my hand a beat longer than necessary, like she was clocking something.

“Now get over here. You always look so lonely over there.”

It landed harder than it should have.

Lonely.

I almost pushed back on it. Made a joke. Deflected.

Instead, I just nodded.

“Yeah,” I said. “I guess I did.”

So I moved down next to her.

It felt strange at first. Too close. Too open. Like I didn’t have my usual buffer between me and everyone else. I didn’t know where to look. Didn’t know what to do with my hands.

“He’ll have a Wild Turkey,” she said to Paddy, like she’d been ordering for me forever. “And I’ll have a Nuni #2.”

Paddy didn’t even question it. Just nodded, already reaching for the bottles.

“What’s a Nuni #2?” I asked.

“Vodka, cranberry, splash of soda.”

“You have your own menu?”

She smiled, completely unfazed.

“I’m special like that.”

Ryan laughed. Paddy shook his head.

And Nuni and I shared this quick look — like she clocked exactly how uncomfortable I was and wasn’t going to make a thing of it. A look I’d come to know well.

I took the shot. Felt it settle in my chest. Let the noise of them — of all of it — happen without trying to push it away.

Something in me eased. Just a notch.

Funny how small it starts.
A different seat. A drink you didn’t order.
A person you almost ignored.When I lived in Queens, I drank at a bar down the street called The Mad Donkey. For all intents and purposes, it was my home. More than my apartment, really. My apartment was where I slept. The bar was where I lived.

The manager, Paddy, was my best friend, which meant I usually started my mornings there. I’d show up before the doors opened, while the place still smelled like last night. Lights half on. Chairs still stacked in the corner.

He’d be cleaning, moving slow, getting ready for the day, and I’d sit at the end of the bar with an Irish coffee, planning mine. Or pretending to.

I was a chef — hate that word — at a restaurant on the Upper East Side, and the job never really turned off. Even sitting there, I’d run through prep lists in my head — inventory, orders, deliveries, what I was already behind on before I even walked in.

It didn’t matter where I was. I was always at work.

Every twenty minutes or so, Paddy would stop what he was doing and we’d take a shot of Wild Turkey. No ceremony. No conversation about it. Just a quiet acknowledgment — pause, burn, back to work.

It felt earned, even that early. Like we were already recovering from something.

By the time the first real customers showed up, I’d already been there for hours. Settled in. Buzzed enough to take the edge off, but not so far gone I couldn’t function.

That was the line I told myself I was walking.

Then I’d leave — cut through Queens, up and over the 59th Street Bridge into Manhattan — carrying that same low hum with me. Just enough to make the day feel manageable. Just enough to keep everything from grinding too loud.

It became routine. Automatic.

Wake up. Go to the bar. Drink. Work. Repeat.

I didn’t question it.

I didn’t have to.

At the time, it felt like control.

Paddy never charged me. He didn’t have to.

We had an understanding.

I gave him my time. He gave me drinks.

It was just the two of us for months. Quiet mornings. No crowd, no noise. Just the bar before it became a bar.

I thought that meant something.
I thought it made me different.

Then one morning, Paddy unlocked the door and let two people in.

No warning. No explanation. Just opened the door like it was nothing and waved them inside, locking it behind them like always.

And just like that, it wasn’t ours anymore.

I felt it immediately — this sharp, stupid sting I couldn’t hide. Not anger exactly. Something more embarrassing than that.

Jealousy.

I shot Paddy a look — what the fuck — and he just smiled like I was being ridiculous.

“That’s Ryan. And that’s Nuni. They’re cool.”

I didn’t care how cool they were.

They weren’t supposed to be there.

I stayed on my side of the bar, barely looking at them. Hungover, annoyed, acting like if I ignored them long enough they’d disappear.

They didn’t.

They kept showing up. Every morning, like they belonged there.

I came to learn they did their laundry across the street and needed somewhere to kill time. That was the reason. That was the explanation.

It didn’t matter.

It wasn’t good enough for me.

I had a system. Paddy and I had a system. I was there for him, he was there for me, and that was it. Clean. Simple. Ours.

Now it wasn’t.

Ryan and Nuni took over the other end of the bar — laughing, telling stories, completely at ease. Like they hadn’t just walked into something that already existed.

I tried not to listen. Kept my head down, ran through my prep list over and over, like I could out-focus them.

I couldn’t.

They were loud in that effortless way — like people who aren’t thinking about how they’re being perceived. It grated on me. Not just the noise — the ease of it.

After a few weeks, I knew everything about them without ever speaking to them.

Same restaurant. Same schedule. Same long days ahead of them.

They were living a version of my life —
just… lighter.

And that’s what really got to me.

Not that they were there.

That they seemed fine.

I was far from fine.

Cooking all day, drinking constantly, snorting whatever I could get my hands on — it was catching up to me. My back hurt like hell. I was exhausted. Wired and dead at the same time.

And I was angry. Always.

That’s what Paddy and I had in common.

We didn’t talk about anything real — we just circled the same complaints over and over. Our jobs, our bosses, the city, other people. It was easier to hate everything than deal with what was actually going on.

So we drank.

That was the system.

That was the bond.

And then they showed up.

And suddenly the bar wasn’t heavy anymore.

It was… light.

They laughed. They told stories. They didn’t seem like they were dragging anything behind them. No edge. No bitterness. Just… ease.

And I couldn’t stand it.

Not because they were doing anything wrong —
but because they weren’t as fucked up as I was.

Especially Nuni.

She radiated it. Joy. Effortless, loud, impossible to ignore.

Paddy would light up the second he saw her.

“Nooner!” he’d yell, unlocking the door.

“Paddy Cakes!” she’d fire back.

Then the hugs. Big, genuine, no hesitation. Like they actually liked being alive.

I’d sit there watching it, stewing.

Who is this person? And why does he love her more than me?

I convinced myself there had to be something going on. It made more sense than the alternative.

So one morning I asked.

“What’s up with you and Nuni?”

Paddy didn’t even look up.
“Nothing. She’s just the best.”

“So you’re not together?”

He finally looked at me, half amused.
“No, you idiot.”

A beat.

“I’ve been waiting for you to talk to her. You’d like her.”

I just stared at him.

“So this whole thing — ” I gestured down the bar, at them, at all of it — “this is for me?”

He shrugged.

“Finally, you get it.”

I felt ridiculous.

“You think I should scoot down?”

“Yes, dummy. We’ve all been waiting for you.”

That stuck with me more than I wanted it to.

We’ve all been waiting for you.

Like I’d been the problem the whole time. Which, of course, I had.

The next morning, I got there early and sat in the middle of the bar — a place I’d only ever ended up if I had no other option. It felt exposed. Wrong. Like I’d taken a seat I hadn’t earned.

I kept looking at the door, already second-guessing it. Thinking about sliding back to my corner before they showed up. Pretending none of this ever happened.

But I stayed.

When they walked in, they both paused for a second.

Not dramatic. Just enough to notice.

“Look who finally switched seats,” Ryan said, smiling like he’d been expecting it.

“I’m Sam,” I said, reaching out my hand, immediately aware of how formal it sounded. Like I was introducing myself at a job interview instead of a bar I basically lived in.

“I know, Sam,” she said, taking my hand. There was a smirk there — not mean, just knowing. “I’m Nuni.”

She held my hand a beat longer than necessary, like she was clocking something.

“Now get over here. You always look so lonely over there.”

It landed harder than it should have.

Lonely.

I almost pushed back on it. Made a joke. Deflected.

Instead, I just nodded.

“Yeah,” I said. “I guess I did.”

So I moved down next to her.

It felt strange at first. Too close. Too open. Like I didn’t have my usual buffer between me and everyone else. I didn’t know where to look. Didn’t know what to do with my hands.

“He’ll have a Wild Turkey,” she said to Paddy, like she’d been ordering for me forever. “And I’ll have a Nuni #2.”

Paddy didn’t even question it. Just nodded, already reaching for the bottles.

“What’s a Nuni #2?” I asked.

“Vodka, cranberry, splash of soda.”

“You have your own menu?”

She smiled, completely unfazed.

“I’m special like that.”

Ryan laughed. Paddy shook his head.

And Nuni and I shared this quick look — like she clocked exactly how uncomfortable I was and wasn’t going to make a thing of it. A look I’d come to know well.

I took the shot. Felt it settle in my chest. Let the noise of them — of all of it — happen without trying to push it away.

Something in me eased. Just a notch.

Funny how small it starts.
A different seat. A drink you didn’t order.
A person you almost ignored.