Photo by Darya Sannikova

Opening Night

Remember, it’s the Platinum Lounge, so he’ll expect full contact.

My husband stops outside a club, which a garish neon sign informs me is called ‘Blue Night’ and promises, among other delights, ‘live’ shows, presumably because nothing is less enticing than a dead stripper.

“Really, Oliver? When you suggested we go out to celebrate, I assumed you meant a restaurant. You…