I hear Miles Davis, KIND OF BLUE. The club is big, but I can’t identify it. I know, BIRDLAND! I see everything twice from a large amount of smoke and the frequency of the various voices. There are five of us at my table. Three women, one man and me dressed in a long, green dress. They are unknown to me, but the grimaces and movements they make are familiar to me. The man’s eyes follow me, and everything I do is accompanied by his sparkling, black eyes. He does it secretly, although every time I notice how a part of his face changes with each of my actions. If I move my head, he reacts by scratching his nose, when I look back at the bar, he looks too. Who is that man, I wonder? It annoys me that he is unarticulated, but his gaze looks warm. My thoughts are followed by genius Miles, Time after time. The woman at my table, the one sitting to my left, in a black, tight dress, is telling me something. She is nicely built, and the dress is without sleeves, so her well-groomed shoulders are clearly visible as well as her beautiful hands whose softness is emphasized by a large, black bracelet. A big black rose is intertwined in her hair with barely visible, discreet hairpins. Looks like Billie Holiday. SOMEDAY MY PRINCE WILL COME.
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