He was supposed to be a world-rewoned actor. And she was supposed to be a silent and mysterious dancer. Her beauty and eyes were deadly. As were his looks. He sat alone at the bar one night. It had been a long day. She was undressing in her dressing room, slipping into something more comfortable. Her name was Savannah. Her last name meant nothing. But his, his last name meant everything. He was Evan Brown, for crying out loud. He was the actor of the century. Well, the 1950s. Savannah no-last-name exited her dressing room.

"Bill," she said, glancing at the bartender, "we had one more customer and you didn't tell me? Why? I could've performed."

"Savannah," Bill said, "it's almost midnight. And this here man doesn't seem like he's in the mood for a performance."

"But, that's Evan Brown," she mouthed.

"I know," Bill mouthed back.

She shrugged. Oh well, she thought, doesn't make a difference to me. She grabbed a taxi and went home. Evan Brown was still at the bar.

"Damn," he whispered, "who was that?"

"That was our dancer, Savannah," Bill said.

"She was beautiful," Evan whispered.

"All the men fall for her, you know. I've given up. She's hard to get. She ain't no movie star like you, sir."

"Shh," Evan said, "don't call me sir. Evan's just fine."

Bill smiled, pouring him some more drink.

"Are you ok?" he asked.

Evan looked at him.

"The new movie ain't turning out so good, you know. The director's crazy and Nina DeMounte is driving me crazy."

"Nina DeMounte?!? She's lovely, though. I would kill to meet her."

"Oh believe me, you don't. But, if you're up to it, come by the set tomorrow. It wouldn't make a difference to the director, anyway. He'll love a man with character like you."

"Why, thank you," Bill said, blushing.

"Anytime," Evan said, placing his hat on his head.

He slipped into his coat and decided to walk home, with nothing but that dancer on his mind.

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