The juice was pouring and Ellington was playin' them bones like no other. It had been months since that foggy evening I first stumbled into this joint, and times had changed. It was that time of year and every Tom, Dick, or Harry was bustling in for some tunes and a warm-me-up between bouts of boardwalk shopping.

I was tapping my toes and slugging gins, watching an Old St. Nick get too deep into his milk and cookies, if you know what I mean. His friend, Jingle or Tingle or whatever, swooped in and ushered him back to some mall, I'm sure.

People moved in a blur, patrons cycling in and out, shopping bags and jingling bells the dissonance to Ellington and his Empties' harmony. I was merry for a moment.

And then she walked in.

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