The voice coming from over by the piano was sultry, throaty and reeked of cigarettes, whisky and dirty sex.

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.

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