When they forbade clocks they exiled time. Then they opened the doors to the exiled, turned the lights to soft and welcomed the lonely into the loving arms of lyricism who loved them all back with a black velvet voice.

A touch of sin in summer, the lightning with the rain, Winterlark crooned the last note, holding it close and warm as she rolled one bared shoulder, curving a hand around the microphone to pull it closer to her lips. She continued to curve as she dipped, her spine arching, hips swaying as she explored the limits of her vocal range, pushing the liquid sound into a subtle shimmy on the threshold of pain.

Curving up now instead of down, the blossom to the stem of the microphone, her ankle hooked around the steel as hers lips twisted, bent the music into a broody mood. She conjured a counterbeat with the snapping of her fingers, tossed a wink to her audience that was pure Winterlark wickedness as the heel of her boot hit the stage-

Snap … the lights cut out, banished the world to black-

Snap … the jazz trio exploded into a percussive tattoo, an incisive beat, dominant and altogether alpha. With sight stripped from the chain of command, hearing took the wheel and wound the window down down down.

The insistent throb tangled in the hindbrain, pressed the primal buttons. It created a crackle in the blood from the sultry simmer of the Winterlark’s melody, called a glow of energy that grew to a haze as the lights powered up again.

Winterlark spun the microphone stand out and brought it home. She raised a brow, twirled a finger in the steamy air and called the wild music to heel. With a squaring of her shoulders that shivered the sequins of her gown, the chanteuse captured the mike, mouth a sly curve to match the lilt of her lashes.

‘Smooth,’ she promised. ‘He’s a smoo–ooo-oth operator.’

The bass player essayed a doubting throb and she answered with a toss of her head, raven locks tickling the small of her back. ‘He’s a born alligator.’

A rill of notes from the piano prompted a flourish of her hand towards the bar beyond the ring of tables and chairs, to the man who glared at the lights as though daring them to dim.

Winterlark blew him a kiss. ‘Face to face, each classic case.’

He ducked and turned the move into a grab for the glue gun on the counter.

‘We shadow box and double cross.’ She cradled the microphone in both hands, hips tracing figure eights as her fingers played. ‘Yet need the chase… a smoo-ooo-oth operator.’

The smooth operator shook his head and crouched closer to the base of the counter. He tugged the sack of coffee beans closer and resumed the sweeping pattern of glossy beans which stretched two-thirds of the way up the bar.

Winterlark’s smile added a decadent purr to the timeless song, spread bewitchment in place of loneliness.