Imagine: 1942. Harlem. Walking down a little side street. The flicker of street lights. The Delicate clack of your T-strap clad feet with an, unconsciously, sultry stride. Hearing the cars, seeing the florescent aura of a bustling city square emanating from a street over. A pair of dapper young army-boys-in-uniform pass with a nod and a grin. A crisp breeze causing your sweet little A-line skirt to flutter around your stockingless knees carries with it the scent of cheep cigars and cheaper perfume. The tantalizing aroma wafts across the blocks from a little café. As you pass the melodious notes of a raspy trumpet accompanied by an angelic voice echo through the street. You stop. So tempting is that little cabaret. You grasp at a pastel shawl draped across your dainty arms, purse those Painted-Red-Lips into the likeness of a grin, grasping a tiny handbag tightly. A contented sigh gives way to heavy eyelids. The thought of your girl friends awaiting your arrival a street over jars you out of your contentment. Smiling, you hastily trot off towards the bustle, knowing you and your girls have been saving-up for weeks for this night out, you all hoping to find some sweet little solder-boys, comically enough; knowing how utterly exhausted you all were going to be at work tomorrow. As you finally met-up with the girls you adjusted your Tight-Strawberry-Curls, fixing your delicate head-piece, and finally; beginning your night on the town.