Three women singing

I don't understand how it comes that every time I am walking from the elevator to the exit, they are there, singing. Fully dressed up as if it were 11 pm on a smoky night, those nights fuelled by whisky and gunpowder and acting out of turn [you know, those nights!] when perfume is used to cover fear. But it could be 8 am, 11 am or 3 pm, and they are always there, under golden lights, thin and pale, and playing the guitars. Still, their voices are perfect.
They seem to play the same song repeatedly when I am walking past, me with my Walkman and Culture Club in my ears. That song!

That song has become the epitome of something I am desperate to know, and that I know I will never be able to discover. I remember I loved that song; it was definitely a love song and somehow a classic or something at the top of the chart. I stopped to listen, I whistled, I hummed, but I could never find out who those three women were, nor what that song was. I remember the hotel we stayed at, where I went alone during the day, the night I stole a rickshaw, a jacket in such soft silk it made my skin shiver. I remember the man with six fingers who sold me a brand-new camera [I was mesmerised by his second pinky, slightly off-set...]. I remember the clothes I wore, what I ate, and the night we all went to the top floor to dance, and we ended up in a sort of a fight.

But that song, that song is lost forever...