I shake my head, wide-eyed as I watch his Jigglypuff cheeks dance. “Just, uh, bathroom.” The words move slower than I do. Reality is too many layers, like a mille-feuille that hasn’t been compressed, and time is the gelatinous pastry cream between them. I wretch a little, chalky sweetness lining my mouth.

He’s still smiling as he motions toward the door. “Any of the bedrooms down the hall have bathrooms en suite with the new Toto toilet betas with built-in mood-sensing soundtracks. Take your pick.” His eyes are glassy beads, like the eyes on every single one of the lost bears watching me. “But don’t be too long.”

NONI

From afar, White Fox Club is not beautiful: a squat, basalt brick building, dimly lit and almost spectral in the fog, wedged into a pseudo–strip mall of abandoned shops. But when you come up close, you see that it is loved. Colorful, otherworldly murals—of foxes painting, dining, walking hand in hand, like human beings—adorn the exterior entrance wall. A sign, hand-painted in white cursive, reads ALL YOU NEED IS LOVE above the lavender door. The pavement vibrates beneath my feet, and the door pulses under my hands, like the building’s good energy can’t be contained.

How did this magical place spring up in this half-forgotten town?

Two women in sleeveless sequined evening gowns vaping by the door greet me with genuine enthusiasm and kindness, even though my shirt is sweat-stained and my jeans are speckled with dried soda and blood. But I’m still tracing the murals with my eyes, and when I fail to answer, they sneak bemused looks at each other before turning back to their conversation. I tie my lank hair into a loose bun on top of my head and push inside, into the swelling music.

The air inside is sultry and thick enough to taste—it envelopes me with its smells of sweat, of lavender, of spilled champagne. Italian electro-pop plays somewhere, disco-inspired, the kind of song that Mama would listen to while getting ready, that Tai would listen to while on a Vespa headed to a Roman club in her dreams. Before me is a long bar, empty but for a few more people Tai would call glamazons, laughing at the bar in richly decorated gowns and full faces of makeup, like gorgeous armor. Tai. I want her here with me. No one’s noticed me yet amid the cackling and clinking of glasses: their night’s about to come alive. I can feel its pulse building.

A pit of velvet, violet-colored seats is nestled between several knee-height cocktail tables decorated with feathered silk lamps, and beyond that, a massive stage with an emerald green backdrop is lit up by dancing white, pink, and yellow lights. Inside the sole spotlight sits one golden chair, with an exaggerated faux ivory fox pelt thrown over it. White Fox.