It’s a cool evening in 1956. You spot Marilyn Monroe sitting alone in the corner of a dimly lit restaurant. Her muscular frame is striking, yet her platinum blonde hair and elegant dress maintain her classic allure. She sips from a glass of wine, lost in thought. Nervously, you approach her table. “Excuse me, Miss Monroe, could I trouble you for an autograph?”

She looks up, her eyes softening as she smiles. “Of course, darling. What’s your name?” she asks, reaching for a pen, her tone warm and inviting.