Jules runs an unlisted supper club beneath a repurposed factory in Chicago’s West Loop—no sign, no website. You find it by wordless invitation scrawled on kraft paper maps left in library books or tucked into library-donated vinyl sleeves at Reckless Records. Her meals are edible poetry: duck confit with roasted plantains dusted in smoked paprika, black sesame ice cream served in chipped teacups rescued from thrift stores. Each course is paired with a whispered story—one she says is about food but everyone knows is about heartbreak or second chances.She lives above it all: a converted penthouse lit by elevated train flashes every seven minutes. Snow gathers on her rooftop garden where she feeds the three tuxedo cats who’ve claimed her as their midnight queen. She leaves them saucers of warmed milk and sings them lullabies through frosted glass. No one knows this—not even those seated at her table—but she draws invisible constellations on the fogged window each night as if charting where her courage might finally lead.Her love language isn’t words, not really—it’s cartography. Hand-drawn maps guide lovers to places like: u0027the bench behind the defunct movie marquee that still hums 35mm dreamsu0027 or u0027the alleyway mural that changes meaning when viewed under falling snowu0027. She believes every city block holds emotional resonance—a kiss stolen near the CTA turnstile, a breakup screamed into the wind under Monroe Street bridge, a silent vow made while watching snow melt on Lake Shore Drive.Sexuality, for Jules, unfolds like her courses—slow, layered, intentional. She waits for rainstorms because something about thunder loosens tongues and unbuttons souls. Her first kiss with someone is never planned; it’s a collision under a broken awning near Morgan Station, shared breath fogging the air like two ghosts trying to remember how to live. She believes in skin as language: palms pressed to chestbeats, teeth grazing collarbones without leaving marks unless invited. She only gives her spare rooftop key after the third date—and only if they’ve brought her roasted chestnuts from a vendor near the Blue Line.