Music pulses from a string of venues while patrons navigate the sidewalks to the beat. Revelers pack the Marais quarter. Men and women hug in the shadows, men with men gyrate against cars, and mini outfits peacock in the streets. My black dress with matching heels might as well be a parka. A wizened man in all white carries a bucket of roses from couple to couple. Groups laugh, dance, and mingle outside while the bars and clubs are only beginning to fill.

A hulking woman stands outside a fluorescent entryway. Impressive forearms cross beneath a muscled bosom. She nods as I approach, not so much as glancing at my purse for ID. I pass beneath the flashing, neon sign for the club—DANSE LA NUIT—each word illuminating individually in sequence—the club whose flyer Angela wrote my to-dos on. When I called the number on the back this morning, the line went straight to voice mail. Did Angela mean for me to end up here tonight with Hugo, one of the resident deejays, or was I supposed to be here Tuesday night when she slipped the leaflet under Nour’s mat, making me days late for an appointment I didn’t know existed? Anxiety sears my blood as I step inside, and I look over my shoulder to see whether Jean-Luc or anyone is behind me.

Techno music bumps on the speaker system while rainbow-colored strobe lights form a disco pattern on the black-painted floor. People huddle in twos and threes. Two bars flank the dance floor on opposite sides, and I head to the closest one next to the entrance. The bartender smirks at my request—Diet Coke with lime. Ignoring him, I raise the plastic to my lips, craving something sugary.

A deejay spins from a booth in the center of the floor behind the protection of a plexiglass case; grinding dancers press against the panels. Song lyrics strike with the pounding rhythm, and my chest aches unwillingly along to each verse. The deep questions the singer asks—Will we be admirable or will we be detestable?—seem to hang in the air made smoky by dry ice and cigarettes. A woman throws back her head, cackling with laughter along the far wall—everyone with her joins in, including Hugo.

He looks much like he did in Nour’s apartment—all smiles, wearing a fashionably unbuttoned dress shirt with a smart blazer—but somehow more aloof, aware that people are looking at him here in his element, as a deejay. His gaze lifts and peers into the semidarkness directly at me. I duck behind a pair of broad shoulders. Sipping my diet soda, I move to a wall, putting a dozen bodies between us, and farther into the shadows. I didn’t come here for another chaperone.