The night would shift with the lulling speeds of the Mississippi on humid evenings in the crescendos of summer; the breeze snaking in heaves and drawls while twining with lace curtains of open half fan windows.
The bartender had passed her a Vieux Carré with a black olive, ready the moment she walked in. She’d been to this particular club quite a few times in her part of town; with its jaunty tunes that had its patrons up and swaying with their partners before they’d downed their 3rd drink. Visiting bands from San Francisco and Chicago, as well as local staples all making their presence known to the high water marks of New Orleans society.
She sashayed her way to her table, her indigo evening gown inlaid with gilded thread that hugged her breasts and ran down her like a vine. The stage man called out the next act but she didn’t catch the name over the murmur in the crowd as she slid into her seat. Plucking some cigarettes from a passing waiter while the soft applause from the audience rolled like rain, she grasped the sight of the trumpet player taking the stage.