In a city where certain evenings still felt quiet and polite, Casablanca stood out as a bright, nervous heartbeat — a gay bar where smiles were soft, drinks were strong, and the laughter was exactly the kind of loud people pretended not to hear. It was one of Richmond’s few sanctuaries for anyone seeking color outside the social lines: smoky rooms, easy entrances, and a crowd of misfits who found home when the lights were a little dimmer than normal.
