The Moon And Its Jazz Are Quite Enough

The dance is enough. Life does its danzón on grand harlequin flooring, giving more cause to a belief that the night being experienced falls more into the realm of ante-dreamt, to illusion, than can be rationally explained.
I just needed a nice restaurant to bring a date to. Quite fond of her, I figured elegance was the main criteria by which I judged my decision. By no means a paladar, with grandmother's cooking and blessings upon each dish, but honest in complexion, and dim enough to relax its visitors; a lavish serenity. The lamps were red. The red drowned the walls with its variegated sentiments on how such a night should feel. Gentle colors of rose fell upon our vision, and at other times a passionate red like that of rose florets upon the backhand of a suitor would perfume into our vivid perception. These hues affect our emotions; the whole experience being a composite of minute paintings that we take no note of in the moment, but are devoted to the beauty of the night entirely.
Continuing on. The jazz pulls the night forward. A piano key of a sharper pitch signifies a new segment of this moon's experience: the part where there are waiters and there are clinks of forks and plates.
Just water, please. The pour goes into a glass chalice. A candle is conveniently resting near; the water reflects its glow and is like molten bronze in the glass.
Cuban coffee. I drown my fatigue (irrelevant to the night at this point in the rhythm and sway, I have tucked myself away in the finest of places).
I fortune upon glances towards my date, they are made up only of smiles and glimmering eyes. Glimmers of higher opulence than that of the jewels on her wrists. The food arrives as well, glancing is a lot more distracting under the spell of admiration, is it not? Ropa vieja is the dish; beans, sweet peppers, and piquant plantains were a joy to have.
Hands are washed in a gorgeous bathroom. The paper towels have blue meanderings of lines upon them: superfluous to some degree, but artful. I cannot be the only one tempted by a mild frugality to put a small quantity of the paper away in a coat pocket to boast of them at home.
The night comes to a close. "Muchas gracias" and the further niceties of dining departures  remind me of how sorry I am to leave this place. A wonderful date, one only of dreams, and that I can not by any means truly capture in this account. A drip of red hue, coffee, and jazz pervade my memory of the winter night. The moon will surely dance its way to another dreamy night, and for that I am thankful.