My daughter bought me a ticket and pointed out that the event was not only for young people. That reassured me about as much as being told a medicine almost never caused nausea. Still, I went. At the entrance they gave me headphones with three channels and showed me the button that changed their light. People danced in a strange silence inside the hall. There were footsteps, occasional shouts, and laughter that did not need to compete with loudspeakers.

I chose the channel playing songs from my earliest nights out. I was fifty, with knees that disliked sudden decisions, so I stayed near the edge. A man several steps away danced entirely alone, wearing a serious expression that did not suit his movements. He did not look skilled. He looked as though it did not matter to him. When he glanced at me I raised a hand, unsure whether it was a greeting or a request for help.

He approached and began dancing beside me. For a moment I thought we were moving to the same old song, both knowing when to wait and when the chorus began. I laughed far more than I had planned. Then I noticed his headphones glowed a different color. I gestured for us to swap them. A fast, persistent rhythm entered my ears without a single familiar word. The man with whom I had just shared a memory had never heard it.

We removed the headphones simultaneously. His name was Damjan, he worked nights at a hotel, and that weekend he had decided not to sleep through his entire day off. I told him I had thought we were hearing the same thing. He replied that my dancing had seemed unusually slow to him too. We stood among people moving by different rules and tried to talk without raising our voices. I liked that more than the coincidence I had invented.

We tried one song on each channel. He did not mock my music, but clearly had no idea what to do with his hands. His left me breathless too quickly. Finally we each returned to our own headphones and danced close together, touching shoulders whenever our rhythms happened to meet. I did not need to convince myself that we had identical taste to want him to stay.

Toward the end my battery died. Damjan removed his headphones and suggested some fresh air. From the steps we heard a tram, people talking, and someone singing badly to a song still playing in their head. I asked whether next time we could go somewhere we could talk. "Without channels?" he asked. I nodded. This time I heard his affirmative answer perfectly well.