She's lithe and lean, with high cheekbones and emerald green eyes. Her hair is shaved to the skull and she wears a monocle. His name is Gabor . You pay him to get in. Or you don't get in.
Poetry is expensive.
Hard currency is best. T he crowd is sparse, but intense. The tables are kitsch from the Communist 50s and mostly Formica and Chrome. The patrons smoke Pall Malls as if their lungs depended on it. Most are young and into Techno.