“I’m not too worried someone’s going to want my bike,” she said.

Swinging their bike helmets, they walked towards the door of Bob’s Place, which had only a small sign announcing its presence, befitting its history as a former speakeasy. In the entry hall, Jake chatted briefly with the woman who was taking the money, introducing Audrey and asking after a friend in common. Bob’s Place seemed to be a ground floor railroad apartment, and the jazz set was performed in an elongated living room. The “stage” was a slightly elevated platform taking up most of the living room, with space for only one row of chairs in front of it. Those were already filled, but Jake guided her to the back, his hand lightly touching the small of her back. They passed through an open archway into the adjoining room where he grabbed two seats with a view of the band.

“Or we can sit out in the garden, but this is better for seeing the band,” he said.

“This is perfect.” And she meant it. She couldn’t believe that she was out with Jake in a former speakeasy.

She held the seats while he made his way to the bar, saying hello to several people. He started talking with one person, gesturing towards her. Glasses clinked, and the general buzz of conversation and rustling as guests settled in heightened the vibe of expectation. The crowd seemed to be a mix of locals and out-of-towners, and the atmosphere was friendly, as if she were at a party at a friend’s house. Three Scandinavians sat in front of her, speaking Swedish. Several musicians came out and started warming up, chatting comfortably with the people sitting right in front of them. She inadvertently made eye contact with the drummer, and he winked at her and she smiled back. Then the lights dimmed, and Jake slipped back into his seat. As he handed her a soda, the music filled the room without even an introduction. The band began with one of her favorites, “Begin the Beguine,” and the clear clarinet notes seemed to pierce the hushed crowd.

When the song finished, the band leader, Bill, introduced the players and shared some history. The pianist then played the opening notes of “Just One of Those Things” while Bill sang, the trumpet joining in. The venue was so intimate that she could see the musicians communicate with each other as each played off the other. She could not stop herself from moving to the rhythm. She looked at Jake, who was also nodding his head to the music and tapping his foot, and their glances caught and he smiled. He moved to hold her hand. She squeezed his hand back. The last line of “Just One of Those Things” was apt for the day—today had been like “a trip to the moon.”