I’m awakened by the sound of laughter drifting through the window of my small flat above the Café. From there I can see the cobblestone streets beginning to fill with partiers, snow piling at the curbside. My clock reads ten PM. Sinking slowly into a warm bath, my wet hair has the scent of lavender and smoke, my skin the smell of yesterday’s perfume mingled with the haunting presence of strong cologne and the sweet scent of sweat and rope. At the mirror I brush my hair and pull it back with a silver plated comb, slip into smoky seamed stockings and my clingy black frock. Making my way past the crowded bar I find my usual booth in the dark fringe of a deserted corner, order a glass of red wine and wait.