But tonight was different. Tonight was the monthly "Showtime Social," an underground party that started after the cabaret closed.

The humid Bangkok evening clung to Mei like a second skin. From her small balcony, she could hear the distant thrum of a bassline from a club three streets over and the sizzle of a street vendor’s wok below. She took a sip of her cha yen (Thai iced tea), the orange liquid sweet and cloying, and checked her reflection in the dark glass of her phone.

Later, walking home as the sky turned from black to a bruised purple, Mei passed a window. She saw the reflection again. Not the performer. Not the accounting clerk. Just Mei.