Backstage of a speakeasy, St. Louis, Missouri, 1927.

A man with warm, sienna fur sits on an old, wooden stool. He seems to be polishing the brass body of his saxophone, bedazzled with many keys and pins adorning its elegantly flowing shape, curving upwards at the bell.

He continues to buff the surface of the jazzy instrument, making its surface like that of a perfect mirror… and in that looking-brass, he sees your reflection, watching his every move.

”Oh, hello.”