Should she really be here?

Tanned babyface dusted with freckles dolled up, eye-shadow smoky as the sinful haze lingering in the air, lips painted a hue rich and deep as the wine served. Red ringlets spiral ‘round, a quaint, if somewhat kinked frame. She couldn’t be a day over fifteen - far too young to be wandering in a sinner’s paradise like our very own Club Delirium, especially unattended, yet, here she was, not only wandering, but working. ‘round her shoulders, before her chest, a tray adorned with glasses, cigar and cigarette boxes. Table to table, she strode, unafraid.

She noticed. Turned. The look in wide honey eyes not one of anger or shock, but exasperation.

“Take a picture, bustah. It’ll last longah.”