It’s early May, one of the first truly lovely weeks of the year. I slip on a light jacket buttoned up to my neck and step into a small red space lit softly like a fishbowl. There’s an open bar, and I’m wearing a delicate, nearly transparent dress from before the Great Depression—hand-sewn, with short sleeves and tiny blue ribbons along the skirt. I sip my cheap red wine as the party spills out onto the street, everyone around me smoking.

This magazine party could be any New York gathering I’ve been to—except it feels different. For once, I don’t have to hug myself against the cold. I’m in love, my hair is long enough for two braids, and summer feels just around the corner.

I’ve never loved going out, but I’ve done plenty of it. At 29, after seven years in the city, here’s a snapshot of my recent nights: A few weeks before this party, my friends and I were at the Rhizome opening at Water Street Projects. We glanced at art installations centered on ancient computers before deciding the real fun was upstairs—an empty Brutalist office space with white columns and cream couches, eerily quiet except for our voices. We didn’t stay long; we had a book party in Little Italy to hit (15 minutes, one drink), then T.J. Byrnes, where we settled into a cracked red vinyl booth as the DJ played Aphex Twin’s “Windowlicker” and I studied my reflection in my iPhone 11 camera.

I’ve danced at loft parties to Kompakt and Basic Channel mixes under blue-tinged lights, sober but lost in the rhythm. I’ve been to punk basements in clubs that barely existed, or that earnest DIY spot in Brooklyn where everyone hung out when I first moved here. At 22, working at Vogue, I spent a fashion party pouring Champagne—mostly for myself—while flirting with a model my age. There was a moment against a slate-gray building, another at Mr. Fong’s, later in Seward Park, and one with a DJ friend. Then there was the bartender I dated for nearly a year, from the windowless bar. We ran into each other at a Bowery show, walked down East Broadway late at night, and I knew I’d never hear from him again. I was right.

But now it’s summer. Here’s what I see coming: Rooftops in industrial zones. Sticky days at Rockaway Beach, watching the sky blush pink. Biking to Mister Sunday in nice clothes just to dance. Cheap noodles at BYOB spots. Tompkins Square Park at 3 p.m. in a halter top and boxers. Prospect Park at 9 in a gingham dress. Shifting gears on the Williamsburg Bridge. Overly air-conditioned dive bars. Mac & cheese and martinis at the Ear Inn. Even when I don’t want to go out, I know I’ll be glad I did. I always am.

In this story: Hair by Bob Recine; makeup by Susie Sobol; tailoring by Tae Yoshida. Movement direction by Renata Pereira Lima. Produced by Preiss Creative.