Somewhere in Harlem.

A Smoke-filled night club.

Somewhere in Harlem. 1920's.

Summer.

The mecca gathering of high class Negros on a Saturday night.

Laughter and Bourbon scents fill the air.

The band is stroking every known emotion a girl can think of.

The piano keys tickle Marjorie right down her spine and lifts her up out of her seat.

She floats like a leaf lost in the Autumn breeze.

Swaying her hips from one end of the dance floor to the other.

She turns men away one by one as they creep up behind the thunderous rhythms in her thighs.

They lose control of their senses when they inhale the secret fragrance hidden behind the earlobe of her right ear.

She never tells anyone the name of the fragrance she wears.

"Awe, baby I had this flown over from Paris", she lies.

She was there for one reason and one reason only.

Duke.

All dressed up she took the A-Train to Harlem just so she could see him.

What she would give to have is fingers tickle her keys.

With all she had in her she yearned to scat notes with him that couldn't be composed.

Truth be told she had a thing for a Jazz man.

She spent nights blowing Charlie Parker's horn in the storage room at The Cotton Club.

The music just hypnotized her.

Caused her to lose her good Christian girl teachings she learned in Mississippi.

She left Mississippi, her childhood memories, her Me-Maw and Grandpa Joe and followed Jazz right on the back of Raymond Edwards pickup truck all the way to New York City.

She saunters over to the bar.

Her red, high waisted dress, showing just the right amount of her butter cream skin, tight in all the right places, and causes everyone to stare.

She came with a mission. To get Duke's attention.

She would lay in her bed at night and make love to Duke on vinyl.

Tonight she wanted him in the flesh.

"Scotch on the rocks, please."

She sips and waits.

Sips and waits.

Waits and sips.

She waits.

He never shows.

Somewhere in Harlem.

Duke never showed.