The Girl on Fifth Avenue
The Girl on Fifth Avenue The jazz bar was called The Velvet Note and it smelled like gin and smoke and things people wanted to forget. Clara sat at the piano—she didn't play, but she sometimes sat at it, which was her way of pretending she belonged in places like this. It was past midnight. The last patrons had stumbled out into the green winter of a New York January. Clara was wiping down the...
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