Dream A Little Dream of Me (One Shot)

[Constance Lafayette]

It's hard to imagine yourself somewhere you're not. You can try to imagine all the details- the gain of the wood, the texture of the carpet under your bare feet, the way the wind smells in the city, but only in dreams can you forget about the small things and truly experience somewhere that's not real.

Connie Jackson had a live set five nights a week at Miller's Bar down on 4th and she closed the joint down each night. The cigar girls loved her, she got the patrons in the smoking mood with her sweet cherry songs. She had a voice like Marlene Dietrich but cut a figure like Anna May Wong. It was on one of those smoky nights, deep into a set with the lights low and the band just soft enough to let her silky voice slip through, that she saw him. He was a man like no other. She knew from the moment she laid her weary eyes upon him he would take her heart and stab her in the end. He was like poison, the kind you take willingly, and she felt the attraction between them grow stronger the longer they locked eyes.

He broke it off first- he was the kind of coy gentleman that would never let a lady drown in his big blue peepers. No, he'd string them along and take them for all they were worth- giving the drop of poison at a time. She knew it, but couldn't let it go.

To the bar he went when her song was sung and she joined him- asking for a glass of water.

"The wet stuff will kill you if your not careful." He mused, waxing poetic as he rolled a dry red in a glass. Connie just gave him a polite smile and pretended to ignore him and he did the same.

It was that way between them for some weeks- him buying a drink and saying something smart once a night and her refusing his charm with all the will she possessed. They danced this dance until one night it came to a halt.

Connie was in the midst of her rendition of the Marion Harris classic "After You've Gone" that she caught him. He was being sweet on one of the cigar girls. That wasn't what bothered her though- it was the cut on his forehead. The last three notes played her out and she assumed her place at the bar, waiting for him to return.

"I'll take a whiskey." He grunted, shoving is weight upon the bar like a crutch, "Two of Á¢â,¬Ëœem barkey and put it on my tab."

Connie pretended to snub her nose at him but he just smiled a raw and knowing smile that only a desperate man could.

"Listen doll. I got one thing to say so listen up. You're Á¢â,¬Ëœbout the prettiest thing I've never touched but tonight it don't much matter. Name's Bucky Malone and your the last thing I'm gonna see. So down that drink, imagine what might have been, and sing me Dream A Little Dream of Me then check the ally behind her. The keys to the Chevrolet are under the wheel well. She's all yours and more if you do me this last request." He said, gushing the words out.

Connie Jackson was a mite offended at the way he'd spoke to her but all the same she got back up on stage one last night as the house lights faded. Her band struck a cord and played the world-weary version of Dream a Little Dream of Me.

Bucky Malone, the coy gentleman who'd captured her heart lay slumped against the fresh leather of the lounge couch behind the little table he had reserved. Gangster, god, or just plain unfortunate fool- he'd been ensnared by her just as hard as she'd fallen for him. Unspoken words passed between their eyes as the band warbled it's brassy melody behind the words she sung just for him. There was a connection- a lifetime of unreality- that transpired in just that instant. As the song finished, the last words hanging heavy on her lips, she saw the last white patches of his clean-pressed shirt be consumed by the stain of his lifeblood.

Bucky Malone, the one love of her life, died that day and she was the only one that mourned. She was his sole heir to- just like the bride she never was. The car he had stashed behind the lazy bar in the middle of downtown Chicago held his fortune. Every scrap of money he'd ever earned and not spent was there- stuffed into the driver's seat with a ring on it.

For the life they never lived.
For the the truths about one another they never learned.
For the end days they never spent together in lazy romance.
It was all there though she'd never spoke a word to him.
This was the never that never was, the dream she let become her reality for a night.
With a start, the stars floating by her window, Constance Lafayette... or maybe Connie Jackson for just a moment... awoke.
Still covered in her sheets in the darkness of her room she shivered, thinking about what might have been.