In the winter of 2013, I walked a mile to go to a play. Well, it wasn’t exactly a play.

I knew this night of theater was happening in my friend’s apartment, a place where she’d hosted clothing swaps and dance parties. I knew we would watch some short scenes while politely sipping the one drink we had selected before the lights went down. And I knew that once the performances were over, we wouldn’t have to be polite about the drinking anymore, and like many of the other shows produced by this particular group of artists, the play would then become the party. I had done this before. I knew what I was getting into.

My friends and I left work and needed to kill time before the show, so we went to the bar right next door to the office. The Irish pub had a roaring fire and endless platters of curry chips. It was Christmas time, and red ribbons and green pine were hung on the mantle of a warm fireplace. It had begun to snow. I’ll be honest–I didn’t want to leave. I couldn’t imagine any place better than where I was already sitting. But we had promises to keep, so we closed our tabs and headed out into the cold.

In my memory, there was a foot of snow on the ground, and I remember how sore my legs were by the time we arrived at the classic Chicago-style two-flat walk-up. I was at a young-adult age where “good” winter clothing was both un-cool and not affordable, so it seems pretty likely that there were cardboard soles in my ankle boots and the heels of my socks were wearing thin. My feet were certainly wet, an assumed truth that had been established since I first stepped foot in Chicago. But I don’t remember shivering or being miserable; rather, I was happy to have made the journey.

Once we were in my friend’s apartment, we were promptly told to take our shoes off–too much slush, we might damage the floors. We all understood this as renters, children who didn’t want to get in trouble with the guy to whom we wrote our rent checks. Our friend’s landlord became our landlord. But my socks weren’t just wearing thin; they had actual holes in them. I don’t remember minding the holes, though, my big toe unfortunately poking out like a prairie dog. I think in a different context I would have fixated on my socks for the rest of the night, apologized to other people before they even had a chance to notice. But on this night–Night Lights–I was already too dazzled to care.

“I was already too dazzled to care. Because Night Lights felt like magic.”

Because Night Lights felt like magic. I’ll be honest: I don’t exactly remember any of the plays that I saw. What I do remember is being instructed to open Christmas crackers above my head, to participate in the simultaneous pop! of getting the party started. I remember twinkling lights everywhere, the “Follow the Lights” sign posted outside that indeed led to a path of winter brightness. I remember being shoulder to shoulder with a small crowd of people, our backs against a bedroom wall, watching a scene unfold on a bed. I do not remember meeting my now-husband, though he claims this is where we first met.

And I remember being so sure that I was inside of a disco ball snow globe, knowing that it was just my friend’s apartment but understanding that the space had been transformed into something else entirely. We clapped for the actors then danced for hours under all those twinkling lights, the holes in my socks somehow growing smaller.

When I say I walked a mile to get to a play that wasn’t exactly a play, it’s because I’m considering all the bookends and benchmarks. The snow, the curry chips, the big walk and the cold legs, all the lights, the shoes-off policy, the dancing, and yes, the plays. I would bottle and sell the feeling of Night Lights if I could, naked toe and all.

Katie Markovich (she/her) writes fiction, personal essays, and performs the occasional voice over. She has been published in McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, The Portland Review, The Gordon Square Review, and The Great Lakes Review, among others. She was recently a Story Board fellow at StoryStudio Chicago. She lives in Andersonville with her daughter, husband, and dog.

Stopping by Ravenswood on a Snowy Eve

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