I need to tell him about Esti Kay. Like, on the date. Tomorrow. So any hope of sleep are obviously things of the past

Faigy did an amazing job on the poster. I squint at it — my eyesight seems to be getting worse with old age, although twenty-five might not yet qualify for that special title, no matter what my mother says. The background is a striking prism of gold and pink, the words seemingly exploding out of the colors.

Chol Hamoed Extravaganza

Starring Esti Kay

Performing live with Chan Lewin

A time to rejoice!

The rest fades into small print I can’t make out.

Shimmy comes back to the table and swivels to see what I’m reading. He squints too, so either the restaurant bulletin board really is too far away, or we’re both reaching middle age.

“Chol Hamoed concert?” he asks, settling back down and reaching for the water pitcher. I watch him, Rivka waiting for Eliezer. He pours for us both; I exhale. A tzaddik gamur, I tell you.

“Hmm? Oh, yeah, one of these women-only events.” I spear a piece of grilled chicken out of my salad, shake off the Caesar dressing, and casually watch his face.

He’s looking down at his beef and broccoli like it holds the answers to all of life’s enigmas. I almost ask him for a peek into his bowl when he looks up, startling me with sudden eye contact.

“Do I sound like a stick in the mud if I say that I find these female performers… off-putting?”

I look at him, willing my facial expression to be both thoughtful and open, while mentally visualizing stabbing him in the eye with his own fork.

“Not at all,” I say mildly. “It’s an interesting topic. I’d love to hear why you feel that way.”

Wow, I managed to get the words out without choking. I’m getting better at this.

Shimmy launches into an impassioned speech about how of course women have talents, but to go and put yourself on a stage is the antithesis of kol kevudah bas melech penimah. I think he got a hinei Sarah b’ohel in there as well, which is impressive because not everyone succeeds at referencing both in one conversation. He’s not wrong, it’s just that I consulted with a posek already, thank you very much.

I hold my breath until he’s done — great vocal exercise — and then fake a covered yawn.

“You’re tired,” he says suddenly. “I’m so sorry, here I am, darshening away.”

I smile beatifically and assure him it’s all right, but Hashem hears my pleas, and less than half an hour later, I’m tottering back into the house on my three-inch heels. They’re a little taller than the two-and-a-half-inch stilettos I wear on stage — even though, those are shorter, but they look more glamorous — but that half-inch throws me every time.

Ma and Ta are doing the dishes when I come home. Yes, they do the dishes together. Ma washes, Ta dries, and Chopin plays softly in the background. Every. Single. Night. Now, some may say that the reason I turned out so fabulously is because of the dependable stability of my childhood. To those people, I say, check your Chol Hamoed calendars.