She enters the smoky club dressed to kill and she knows it. A half smile on her lips, she pauses at a mirror, slips a small tube out of her tiny purse and expertly applies it; the lipstick disappears as fast as it materialized. A quick flick of her short stylish hair and she continues on her way into the main area of the club.

Heads turn in her wake, eyes following her assured stride towards the bar. Her stiletto heels give her just enough height to easily hop up to sit on the bar, one leg crossed over the other. She leans back and gives the bartender a kiss on the cheek.

She looks down and watches as the circle of club regulars, both male and female, forms around her. Obviously this scene has played out more than once, a queen holding court over her subjects. A light touch to a shoulder here, a wink to a suitor there. Confidence pours from her lips in the form of words.

The evening proceeds as expected. By the end, she has chosen the arm that will escort her home. Her smile to him is knowing.