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The stage is framed in crimson velvet, its edges lined with small lanterns that cast a warm glow across polished floorboards. A pianist sits near the curtains, his fingers gliding over the keys while a violin joins him from somewhere beyond my view.

There are mirrors everywhere. It is fascinating.

Somehow, the illumination cast by the reflection lights up the entire area, giving it a mystical feeling. I find my seat within the aisles of the main floor.

The first group of women disappear behind the curtain to a chorus of applause. Then another set enters. Each carries a black wooden chair. They place them upon the stage in one synchronized motion. The sound of the legs striking the floor echoes through the hall. Once. Twice. Then the music changes. Slower. Deeper. The rhythm and beat dance across my bones.

The women move around the chairs with practiced precision, their skirts sweeping across the boards as their bodies follow the rhythm. The performance is sultry, certainly, but never vulgar. Every turn is deliberate, every glance carefully offered and withdrawn.

It is seduction treated as art.

A woman in emerald silk drags one gloved hand along the back of her chair before lowering herself into it. Another leans backward, her spine arching as the lantern light catches the jewels woven into her hair.

The audience is transfixed. So am I. Though not for the same reason. I have come here searching for a woman whose face I do not know. A woman I have met for luncheon year after year without ever truly meeting her at all. Our arrangement began discreetly and has remained our own secret to share.

At first, we had brief exchanges between our wooden barriers. A recommendation for a café. A comment regarding a newspaper article. An argument over whether people are born cruel or merely trained into it.

Then conversations grew longer.

She reads books, loves to try new foods, adores music, and discusses the peculiar ways society attempts to confine women within lives too small for them. I share my love for reading, machinery, and the burden of protecting someone who does not always wish to be protected.

We have never exchanged portraits. We have never exchanged glances. Never provided true names.

When we meet for luncheon, she arrives concealed beneath veils or hats, or arrives before me, already tucked away in her booth. Sometimes I wonder whether she considers it a game.

I wonder whether she fears being known. I understand that fear better than most. Now, somewhere within La Sirene, she is here. The familiar comfort blooms within my chest knowing I am within her vicinity.

Scanning the theater, I see beautiful women and men upon the stage synchronized to music. I wonder if she is there, dancing for me.

Or perhaps she is in one of the balconies, watching her performers. My gaze moves from one performer to another.

The woman in emerald laughs as she hooks one ankle around the leg of her chair.

Too loud. My mysterious companion possesses a quieter sense of humor. Another woman in black lace turns toward the audience with a sharp, knowing smile. Possibly. Then she tosses her head back dramatically, and I dismiss the thought. My luncheon companion despises unnecessary theatrics. At least, she claims to.

All six performers rise from their chairs in perfect unison and strike their final pose as the room erupts into applause. The performance concludes after twenty minutes, and the large velvet curtains draw shut.

My fingers rap against the armrest of the seat as I continue to scan the room. After several minutes the lights dim.

Her dress is a deep shade of wine, nearly black where the light fails to touch it on center stage. She moves with elegant restraint, never competing for the audience’s attention, yet somehow drawing it regardless.

There is calculation in the tilt of her chin. Confidence in the placement of her hands. Her eyes scan the crowd, her gaze landing briefly on mine. We lock eyes for a suspended moment in time. Something inside my chest shifts. Recognition without a memory.

The sensation is absurd; I have never seen her face. Yet I somehow know the manner in which she studies a room. I can feel the slight narrowing of her eyes when she is evaluating someone or something.

I know the patience concealed beneath her stillness. The woman looks away first, disconnecting us.

The music reaches a swell as she moves around the chair like it is a lover. Angling her body in different motions and movements, it is mesmerizing.

I remain seated. Watching. Waiting. Held captive by her movements, her grace and essence.

The song settles as her performance concludes. I don’t want her to be finished.

I want to watch her perform for as long as I may. The woman in wine disappears behind the curtain. Closing my eyes, I allow the performance to replay within my mind. Only this time, I imagine myself in the chair.

Her hand gliding along my shoulder. Her skirts brushing against my knees. Her curvy body moving around mine with the same effortless command she held over the entire room. A ridiculous thought. Improper. Dangerous. And yet, I cannot seem to banish it. My eyes spring open when a server approaches my table and places a folded card beside my untouched glass. No name marks the outside. Only a familiar line written in familiar handwriting.

You are staring.