Mathieu peers at the red drapes. Painted numbers are next to each golden rod suspending the velvet material, and he gestures to me—whichever one I’d like. Confusion adds to my buzz. The security I understand; the hostess’s third degree makes sense for an illicit bar. These curtains, the empty foyer and vestibule, the lone couple making out, his hand under her shirt, are all strange. Where are we? Where are the patrons, eager to be seen and posted on social media, like in the Gaslamp speakeasy?

I choose curtain number two, and we pass into a tight space with a view that stops me in my tracks. A glass partition presents a room with a bed. Folded chairs are propped against the walls of our viewing space, and Mathieu unfolds two for us. The glass is streak-free; the smell of window cleaner lingers, and something else. Antibacterial. Beyond the bed, a velvet drape of fabric hangs at the back, probably leading to one of those doors along the adjacent hallway. I turn to ask Mathieu what we’re doing here, but he is already seated, leaning forward, waiting. The curtain sways.

A woman enters, clad in nothing more than a slip. Nothing fancy, with barely any lace to the hem. But the silk clings to her slender frame, moves with her hips, becoming provocative and more than just a precursor to bedtime. She approaches the glass, and I’m not sure if it’s a two-way pane or one-way from the manner she blows a kiss to the corner neither Mathieu nor I occupy. She’s young. Far younger than I would expect someone to be at a peep show, with heavy makeup and rouge, like she’s prepared for a theatrical performance. Is this burlesque?

My heart races, titillated by the sheer taboo of being here. Never in a million years would I have bet Angela set foot in a place like this. She believed ardently in love stories and shunned anything that suggested the contrary in romance and sexuality. Anything that suggested sex was a base act instead of a form of ethereal lovemaking.