I was hopeless, my poses stiff and awkward, all weak imitations of what I’d seen other performers do while I’d been waiting my turn. With back muscles knotting and frustration edging me toward tears, I had to break to stretch—and the photographer snapped my photo. The shot caught me mid-arch, my arms raised and lips parted, my eyes soft.

The effect is intense. At first glance, I appear totally naked. I’m not; I’m in pasties and a G-string, and am seated on a pile of sky-blue boas with another draped over my shoulders. But the eye is drawn to very specific areas—two, to be exact—and if I may say so, they look outstanding.

Hella better than “thoroughly tolerable,” thank you so much.

Ego slightly revived, I move to return the file to the drawer, but a second folder demands my attention. I look at my watch: 1:07 a.m. I grimace, drumming my restless fingers on the edge of the drawer front. It’s late. No need to start on that now . . .

My memory flickers to the ideas I had at the beginning of the first show: simpler wallpaper, the dark arc behind the stage—it’s not like I have any plans for tomorrow, anyway.

I toss the folder onto the desk and flip it open before common sense interferes. Staring back at me are two years of notes, sketches, wallpaper samples, and newspaper and magazine clippings, organized by concept and location. Some are for the interiors of bars, and there are a few ideas for concert venues and restaurants, too. Last month’s search for a space to host a merger party for my day job put me into overdrive; at this point, the place I ended up reserving could have a file of its own.

I select the pile bound in a folded sheet of the letterhead I used at the start of my evening: Meryton.

Jane was only working Jazz Nights when I moved here. I’d lurk at the bar, letting Michael’s heavy pours take the edge off my hurts while Jane sang around his own. Such was the extent of my social life until Jane added the burlesque shows to his repertoire.

I knew nothing about burlesque outside its reputation as “fancy stripping.” But the first time I saw Ming prowl across the room, I was hooked. The costumes, the playfulness, the control the performers had over every moment they were on: it spoke to me. They were 98 percent bare and nothing short of invincible. And I needed invincible.

I sat at the bar through both shows, rapt, and when we got home, I signed up for the New York School of Burlesque’s intro class. And then I drew.