It was a brick building that had been built in the 1920s.

The tall windows on the second floor were glowing with warm, yellow light.

We could hear the faint, brassy sound of a big band playing even before we reached the door.

We climbed the wide wooden stairs, our shoes clicking on the steps.

At the top of the stairs, a couple was paying their admission to a woman sitting at a card table.

The air smelled of floor wax, perfume, and damp wool.

We paid our admission and walked into the ballroom.

The room was larger than I remembered.

The floor was made of polished maple, worn smooth by decades of dancing feet.

Around the perimeter of the room, small round tables were set up with white tablecloths.

In the corner, a local seven-piece band was playing “In the Mood.”

The saxophone section was swaying in unison, their instruments shining under the lights.

“Would you like to sit down first?” Harold asked, gesturing to an empty table near the window.

“Yes, please,” I said.

We sat down, and Harold brought us two cups of punch from the table at the back.