The Sapphire Hotel

by Keke Walker

My day was starting slow.

I had spent the night before working through an anxiety attack and woke up feeling depressed. To be transparent, I haven't been on my medication for a month or two…I forget I can get like that, especially when I’ve started feeling better again. I start relying on my surroundings to keep me balanced but my emotions get to dictate a lot of how I move.

Anyway, I woke up after a long rest and decided I needed to get some books. I wandered downtown into Powell’s which—if you haven't had the chance to go, or haven't heard of it—is about a whole city block of books. I spent hours parsing through different books that caught my eye and eventually passed a significant amount of time in the Purple Room. This aisle is full of books on Wicca, witchcraft, hoodoo; there are grimoires…all kinds of witchy things.

I felt like I was lost in time for a bit searching each row of books looking for some written by a person who may have the same background as I do. I see book after book of authors speaking about magic from a perspective I don’t feel the rights to. I do think I have some Irish and French blood so, maybe, but I was focused on finding hoodoo texts.Reconnecting with my Yoruba Ancestors was the main mission.

I eventually leave the book shop with about ten new books. The sky is dark and I am feeling some semblance of myself emerging, getting excited to read my way into new ways of being. I'm hungry. I forgot to eat earlier that day and had a distinct flashback to Sapphire.

I remember going on a date there with who-knows-who at this point; I'd really have to dig but, I think it may have been a meeting to vet. My memory told me about a dimly lit bar, a crafted menu, and deep red curtains. It also whispered to me how good their burger was last time I was there. By this point though, I had forgotten the name of this place. So I looked up Por Qué No, followed directions to there and, off of memory, ended up parked across from my destination. A memory made reality.

Sometimes I feel my memories are from another time, and the place may not be mine but, this was real. I get ready to leave the car and I remember what a friend said to me about seeing people reading during their meal and thought you know what…I should do that; to entertain and create a space for myself during what I was planning to be a decadent and warm meal.

I decided on my new palmistry book; it's short, maybe a hundred and twenty pages; tiny, too. I pack it in my purse and clench my jacket tight as I step out of the car and embark up to The Sapphire. I open the door and it's somewhat busy, lots of couples and a few larger parties. I'm greeted by a gorgeous person. She's wearing all black, has a few tattoos, and long dark hair. She seems inviting but, in her role things have to move briskly. I tell her For one, and she asks me about the bar. I agree and follow her back. As I walk by the tables I catch glimpses of food, drinks, and a mirror that lines the dining room. We make it to the bar. It's a warm chestnut color, candle lit and almost full. Some single older men, a few pairs of folks, friends or lovers—I don’t know.

The bar is being run by an older woman and she’s churning the drinks out. I look over the right of the bar and see a small fireplace and some leather chairs and decide I would rather sit there. Not only did the seat have a better view, but I could also use the back support and warmth while I dig into my book. I’m seated and met by another server, another femme-presenting person dressed in a more western witchy vibe. At this point, with the all-femme staff, dimly lit and dark botanical vibes, I knew I was in the exact right place.

She sets me up with a menu and some water. I read through and decide on the Witchy Vibes cocktail: vodka, pisco, crème de violette, lemon, balsamic, egg white. Lavender black salt. Up.

With my first drink I take a bit of time and read about 20 pages. Then I'm ready for my meal to begin. I like to take a meal in three or four parts if I can and have the time. I order the Artichoke & Arugula Dip, warm with sliced baguette. Then I get another drink and order my main course, Burro e Pomodoro - Rigatoni pasta in a tomato butter sauce with parmesan, fresh basil, and bloody steak.

The experience is wholly sapphic. I mean, of course I don't know the story of everyone working there. My assumptions may be death of me, but my intuition gives me life. I look up from my book now and then, taking in the way the bar glowed under the golden flicker of low candles; shadows dancing across pressed tin ceilings and deep burgundy walls. Velvet drapes framed the windows, barely open, and outside the rain whispered. Inside, the space held its own rhythm: intimate, slow, indulgent. The kind of place made for lingering glances and soft confessions.

The staff—femme-adjacent, fluid, each with their own spell-caster energy—moved with confidence and care. No false cheer. Their movements were intentional, their voices low and full of texture. There was art along each open wall space that matched the dark energy of the ambiance. All we needed were small dried bundles of herbs hanging from the corners of the back bar. I imagined yarrow, rosemary, and mugwort—a small, flickering altar to something sacred and unspoken.

The fire crackled next to me, warming my side. The booze loosened me up and shifted the dense air that was building with couples flowing in and out of the space. For a moment, I forgot the ache in my chest, the weight that had followed me into the day. It wasn’t gone, but it had shifted—just slightly—to the side. I could feel my breath again. I thought about how many nights I had spent trying to outrun myself, waiting for the wave of panic to crash and recede. And here I was, seated firmly in my body, warm, well-fed, and alone—but not lonely.

This is the magic I was looking for in those books and the revival of indulgence I felt the first time I had been there with a client. Not just the spells or rituals, but the everyday kind—the decision to care for myself when it would’ve been easier to sink into nothing. The choice to remember that I deserve rest, even if I have to go searching for it.

Eventually I closed my tab. On my way out, I caught the hostess' eye again and smiled. She smiled back—quick but sincere. Outside, the sky had settled into dark grey, still raining. The street was quiet, cars humming low, and everything seemed to exhale around me.

Back in the car, my palmistry book slid off the passenger seat and onto the floor. I picked it up and traced the cover. I wouldn’t finish it that night. The introduction to new magic was exciting enough that I wanted to linger a bit with it. The Sapphire wasn’t about the reading or even the food, though both were good. It was about remembering a space for me that felt familiar, the indulgence of first meetings, and the things that bring me grounding in myself.

Maybe next time I’ll ask for a palm.