The voice coming from over by the piano was sultry, throaty and reeked of cigarettes, whisky and dirty sex. I looked up from my glass of single malt and swivelled around on the bar stool to see if the reality matched the image now placed firmly in my brain. I expected to see a train wreck of a woman, whose dissolute appearance matched her voice, but I was startled to see a woman of no more than mid twenties, with long, sleek, dark brown hair and the face of an angel. I did a double take, unable to believe that the voice and the woman I saw before me belonged with each other. Perhaps she was miming? If she was, she was damned good at lip-synching. She was singing the Billie Holiday song, Solitude, with all the angst of the original, accompanied only by a piano; played by an elderly black man.
The opening paragraph from my current work in progress, Songbird.