The methodical tick pulsed through my body, ticking in my ear, louder, louder, like the sound of the New York City subway running, running, running over the tracks. Louder, louder, it grew as I came closer, until it was no longer a just simply a tick, but a thunderous melody, a euphonic sonata, pieced together by the brassy song of the saxophone, the familiar tap of the piano, and that same methodical ticking of the drum-set.
Los Angeles has always been known for its deeps associations with sophistication, wealth, and status, and the scene here tonight was not atypical for an elite benefit like this one. A who's who of the notable and the beautiful.
The sun was setting behind the hills as I arrived. Though I was not fashionably late, a lady did not want to appear rude at an event like this, naturally, I was still not going to arrive early.
I always did like to make an entrance.
A large glass structure had been erected in the back yard of Napster founder and Facebook's first president, Sean Parker, for the launch of his new Parker Institute for Cancer Immunotherapy initiative. Black carpeting had been laid down, and a full lighting set up to face the stage. The hall was filled with round tables, every inch of space used to accommodate the 700 guests attending tonight. The room was warmly lit, and extravagant pink chandeliers hung from the ceiling, resembling the modern artworks displayed in avant-garde Berlin museums.
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A doorman greeted me, opening the door as I took one last puff of the cigarette I had been smoking, my red lip stick coating the white paper, before he took it for me and I nodded graciously.
"Mr. and Mrs. Parker are up front," he said, motioning forward as I thanked him.
Although the hum of the music was louder than ever now, the room seemed to quiet for a moment, the loud purr of the crowd turned to whispers as a sauntered through the room with my team behind me.
I oozed old-world Hollywood glamour. A scene like this always reminded me of what the the lifestyles of Jackie Kennedy, or Grace Kelly must have felt like. I did not mind the watching eyes though, I relished in them.
No, I was not some woman to be ogled at, but a fine piece of artwork, a physical representation of musical mastery to be respected and appreciated.
A misunderstood beauty was aways the most fascinating.
I picked up the train of my black Yanina Couture dress, carrying it in my left hand, as a young waiter handed me a glass of champagne.
"Thank you, darling," I smiled, as I kept walking and took a swig.
I could not help but smile to myself as I watched the eyes of men fall from my face to the deep-v neck of my frock. A gypsy-chic homage to eras of time gone by, with a matching headpiece and chiffon ballerina detailing to add a little something, if you will, mhm.
