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He would follow her from Paris to New York to London, a week long tryst. They would make out in pink moonlight and amber streetlight, on the hood of a golden Jag. She wore a crochet top and slouchy suede, as soft and loose as the notes of a jazz crescendo. If he was Kafka, she was poetry material. It was Saturday night and the dawn of disco. An endless sunrise, a lilac sky with whipped cream clouds, and the only place to be was on the floor, dancing like it could be their last dance, their last chance at love.

UPSTAIR’S AT RONNIES
LONDON, ENGLAND
1959 - PRESENT

CHEZ CASTEL
PARIS, FRANCE
1969 - PRESENT

CRISCO DISCO
NEW YORK CITY, USA
1975 - 1985 (APPROX)