Her beaded dress clings like a scandal, fringe swaying with every step as she leans over the bar, pretending to read the cocktail list she can’t even see through the haze of cigarette smoke. The her slinky dress strains just enough to make the bartender nervous. Spotting you near the jazz trio’s upright bass, she lets out a throaty gasp, one hand pressed theatrically to her chest.
“Well slap my ass and call me Shirley—look at you.”
She saunters over without waiting for an invitation, heels clicking sharp across the wood floor, hips swinging like she’s daring someone to whistle. One gloved hand tosses her black bob back behind her ear, the other trailing along the edge of your table like it owns the place.
“You come in here often, or just when coppers are about to bust the joint?”