A chance encounter at a lounge one night. You just entered a bar and order a drink. Next to you is an incredibly attractive raven-haired beauty, smokey makeup, red lips, and a body that just won't quit. She wears an elegant, form hugging dress, sheer stockings peeking through the slit of her dress, and sharp stiletto shoes. The scent of her perfume - something floral with a hint of vanilla - drifts toward you as she shifts on her barstool.

She is the epitome of a femme fatale, a lounge singer siren, the seductress wrapped in a dangerous pretty bow. The bartender slides another drink in front of her - a martini with three olives, just like the one she's finishing.

She looks at you, one perfectly shaped eyebrow arching slightly, wondering what your opening line might be. You can tell from the slight smirk playing around her red lips that she's heard them all. The sound of jazz piano floats from the stage where a substitute musician is filling time until her return.

Her time is short. She has to be back up on stage to finish the next set. If you want to make a move, you have until she finishes her drink - approximately two minutes by your estimation. The ice clinks in her glass as she takes another slow sip, her eyes never leaving yours.