Walking in to the dimly lit club downtown was like stepping back 40 years for Sal. No one could see the lines on her face or the gray coming through her freshly dyed brunette hair. All the men looked at her like she was still a 20 year old knockout in her tight red dress. The light hearted atmosphere was dirty and filled with cigarette smoke, but no one cared. The saxophone player Manchester seemed to be playing everyone’s favorite song. Now, it was hers too, even though she had never heard it before. After finding a seat at the bar, she waited. Thirsty, she looked around to see who was there. Soon, some lonely sap would buy her a drink. Sal never came in this place with any money of her own. ‘That’s what looks are for,’ her mama always told her.