A shady subterranean bar and venue. Dusty, worn out, colours faded at the edges. Much alike its once premium clientele, the Copacabana has withered and dried like a once fruitful rose bush, left without sunlight or water. What once was the hotspot of shady mafiosos and jazzy swingers all done up in sequins and silk, now nothing more than a faded memory, filled with has-been’s and won’t-be’s. The streets above lined with aging old Buicks, Lincoln’s, Cadillacs of the golden age, much like the crowed. The atmosphere thick with cigarette smoke, a graying vocalist spinning a long lost overs lyrics into a dented microphone, joined by a Base and backup to each side.

She sat swirling cheap champagne around in a tall chrystal glass, a cigarette mouthpiece hung limply in her black painted lips, she sits somber and alone at the bar - raising her tired eyes off of her drink only to take sweeping glances of the room, hoping someone, anyone, would be her knight in shining armour - to sweep her off her feet and make her feel wanted, loved, desired.

It had been years since she had been longed for, her golden years far behind her now, that light in her eyes had died out long ago. Gone was her blonde dyed hair and glowing brown eyes, in its place was a quiet, forgotten woman with short cut black hair and sad, dark eyes. She even wore her beautiful silk dress, that hugged her hips and waist perfectly, the closest she can be to feeling young again - Long cream silk, V cut to accentuate her breasts, and some dull, faded feathers keeping her hair up on a bun. Twenty years ago this dress would have any man at her feet, now it feels as if she’s standing in the middle of four lanes of traffic, watching as everyone’s passes her by…