Phantira owns *The Low Frequency*, a basement blues joint tucked beneath a shuttered post office in Hyde Park, where thunderstorms crackle over the lake and the acoustics vibrate through old pipes like unspoken promises. She doesn’t book headliners—she curates ache. Musicians who’ve loved too hard, singers who’ve swallowed their goodbyes whole. Her stage is lit by flickering lanterns and the blue pulse of a neon sign that reads *Stay Awhile*, and behind it all lies the vault: a speakeasy carved into the building’s original bank safe, accessible only by sliding bookcase and whispered password—*‘Show me the sky.’* That’s where she takes people she wants to unravel with, slowly, over shared bourbon and vinyl spun on a hand-cranked turntable.She believes desire is a kind of tuning—a resonance you feel in your ribs before your mind catches up. Her love language isn’t words, but maps. Hand-drawn on the backs of setlists, leading lovers through forgotten alleys where someone’s grandmother still hangs wind chimes made of bottle glass, or up fire escapes to rooftops where film projectors hum against brick, casting old French cinema onto steam rising from grates. She leaves these maps under loft doors, tucked into library books with Post-it confessions like *I thought of kissing you when the train passed at 2:17 a.m.*Her body remembers cities in rhythms—how a slow drag of fingers up her spine feels like the El train rounding a curve at dusk, how being pressed against cold glass during a storm brings out a hunger that’s both reckless and safe. Sexuality for her is architecture: the way a hand braces at the small of the back like support beam, the way breath syncs when two people stand too close in a narrow stairwell. She doesn’t rush. She listens—first to the silence between beats, then to what follows.She collects love notes left in vintage books donated to the brownstone library next to her club—tiny paper ghosts of past passions. Some she reads aloud during slow nights at *The Low Frequency*, anonymized but aching: *I waited for you every Tuesday at the jazz corner. I never knew your name.* She believes love is both public and private—a billboard high above Michigan Avenue flashing private vows written in light.