A hostess led us through People’s Park to a large pavilion and handed us a pot of jasmine tea.

The advertisement had called it a teahouse among other things.

Our seats sat high in the back, but a raised platform put us above the rows in front.

We had the clearest view in the room.

The expensive seats didn’t.

Beer advertisements blinked beside the curtain.

Vendors wandered the aisles selling snacks and souvenirs.

Every time our cups emptied, the hostess appeared and topped off the teapot with water.

Each refill tasted a little weaker than the last.

Dani laughed.

“Just enough tea to earn its name.”

Ahead of us, the applause sign lit, and lights dimmed.

A singer opened the evening with long notes that drifted somewhere outside the scales I knew.

Performers followed in embroidered robes and towering headdresses, their costumes shimmering beneath the lights.

That afternoon, we’d seen those same costumes hanging in the ticket office.

From a few feet away, the jewels had turned to plastic beads. Gold trim gave way to pipe cleaners, silk flowers, and pom-poms. Clear tape held everything together.

But the teahouse was dark. The stage was bright.

From thirty feet away, all that disappeared.

~

Before us, the evening continued.

Puppets.

Music.

Comedy.

A man pretended to be a baby.

Another performer mimed playing instruments while the music came from somewhere offstage.

Finally, the famous face-changing performance.

One face became another, then another.

Each change happened too quickly to see. Each change drawing another ripple of applause.

The temperature dropped.

We wrapped our hands around our warm teacups and watched our breath disappear into the cool air inside the teahouse pavilion.

Eventually the hostess stopped refilling the pot.

The tea in our cups turned cold. So did we.

I fell asleep.

Then Dani was waking me.

In front of me, the curtain was falling.

We stood slowly, rubbing feeling back into our legs before walking across the park toward the hotel.

~

Music floated through the trees and falling leaves.

Couples occupied nearly every open square of pavement.

Some danced ballroom. Others practiced slower steps I didn’t recognize.

Nobody seemed to be watching anyone else.

Someone carried a small radio.

People laughed when they missed a step and quietly began again.

We slowed our step.

Dani listened for a moment.

“We could West Coast Swing to this.”

I held out my hand.

She smiled and took it.

Then we joined them—swinging and turning beneath the shadows and trees while strangers moved around us.

Nobody applauded.

Nobody even looked our way.