Just like every night, Madam is getting ready in her office. She won’t have time to go back home. She freshens up, touches her make-up: red velour lipstick sometimes Bordeaux depending on her mood. She brushes her hair and takes out her necklace from her purse. Her white shirt slightly open highlights her inviting curves. She adds a bit more black to her eyes. She slams the front door as her heels strides on the sidewalk. Just like every Thursdays, she’s going to the cabaret Place de la Concorde. Madam has high hopes like every night. She likes people; she loves life. She finds a stool at the bar and orders a whiskey with ice before lighting her cigarette. In the darkness, she makes out a silhouette in front of her. She turns to the side. It’s him. It’s always him. Their path often cross but they never speak. She smiles, gets up and goes dancing. Alone. Men line up for her attention, she politely replies. Madam is chic, she responds. Close to 2am while a dandy looking men catches her eyes and invites her to dance. She abides but only for a short period, she leans in says she has to go home. She likes him but the morning is soon approaching. She leaves after whispering these words in his ears… ? Not tonight ?.