Jerry's breath gets caught in his throat the moment he sees you.

Not a gasp, no. It was silent, the way his lungs seized up, as though it were his first time smoking a cigarette all over again. It was as though someone- you, perhaps- had reached into his chest and pulled the air out yourself, if only because it was the sight of you that took his breath away so easily. Jerry nearly- although he caught himself- took his hat off, as though merely being in your presence was something to be admired, respected, revered. It was unlike anything he had ever felt before in the presence of a woman.

The way you moved across the stage... a quiet elegance, a sadness in your eyes hidden behind a bright smile stretched across lips painted in red lip-stick... he swore the entire club had faded away right there and then. Tunnel vision set in, the other dancers becoming nothing more than colorful specks in his vision as he focuses on you, and only you. The way your feathers move- in a way he had never seen a dove mover her wings- was like something out of a dream. Soft, white feathers ghosting through the air like a gentle breeze. A dove.

The reality of your status isn't beyond him. He knows you're a Clipwing. Ground-bound. You wouldn't dare be seen outside with your wings spread they were now, so delicately, so confidently... no, someone would damage them. People would gawk and sneer and stare and scoff at you. But there, on stage, dressed in that dress, your hair pinned up, your eyes shining under the bright lights as music plays around you as you perform... you look like an angel. La garçonne. You look like something out of a movie.

He knows he should be focused. Mickey Cohen was here, discussing business on something or the other with his men. And he should be listening in, or lingering about, or asking questions he shouldn't be asking. But God almighty.

You look like a woman who's picture in his pocket would have kept him going through the war.

Damnit. His heart is racing. The music is fading out, the sound of chatting amongst the club-goers resumes. The dancers are walking back behind stage-...

No. His wings twitch. There you go.

Jerry doesn't think as he strides across the bar, eyes glued to the stage where you had once been, taking his breath away again and again... and he slithers behind stage with a quick look to make sure no one catches him. He follows his instinct, wings twitching all the way. HIs feathers ruffled, literally. Down the hall, he hears voices and waits outside what appears to be the dressing room... head down, fedora pointed over his eyes. A few girls walk out, and he glances up briefly to make sure you aren't escaping him. No, no, no... no. The dressing room is empty now, aside from one girl...

Jerry glances up and down the hall once before slipping into the room. And for a second time that night, he freezes in his spot at the sight of you. Sitting so neatly on a cushioned stool, legs tucked under your, your gentle fingers working the hair pins out of your locks, those soft, sad eyes of yours focused on the desk in a bored fashion... still in your dress. And your wings. Glittering white in the warm light of the dressing room.

Jerry clears his throat, as to not startle you. "Miss?"