Caloric

It was such a beautiful day to be stuck working in the bar but she didn’t hate it. The Mulligan was the hottest bar in town, and only the wealthy came to dance here. The building itself had such an extravagant charm to it. The floor was covered in shimmering white marble—a milky sea with the finest red velvet lounges floating on top here and there. The bar was smooth, rich mahogany, with artistic carvings climbing all the way up. Behind the bar was a mirror that reached to the ceiling, flanked by bunched red velvet curtains on either side and crowned with upside-down carved mahogany peaks, like teeth pointing down at the bar top.

The appearance was alluring enough to draw people in, and the music was the reason people stayed. This was the ‘it’ place for young people. Guys came to show off to their girls, married men came to show off their wives, and single gals came to show off to everyone. Married, dating, or single, the male costumers were always putty in her hands, so their tips made for a great living; getting free drinks every night wasn’t half bad either.

She came to work with her hair dolled up like one of the fancy rich ladies, wearing a dress of sequins and sheer, because rumors were going around that some of Al Capone’s men were in town, meaning she had the potential to make big money if she played her cards right.

The afternoon was going like any other. All the typical characters brought in a different girl than the night before. Thank God she wasn’t as foolish as these girls. She would never fall for any of the crap these sweet-talkers spew, and boy did they ever spew it at her, all the time.

“Scarlett,” Mickey, the other bartender called, then slid a shot glass down the bar toward her. She caught it and looked at the brown liquid inside it, the heady fumes of whiskey opening her nostrils. Mickey nodded his head toward a man at the other end of the bar who smiled at her and raised his own glass.

The man was devilishly handsome with jet black hair, the bluest of blue eyes, and a jaw so angular it could cut glass. Judging by the suit he wore, he was no Gatsby wannabe. Something about him was familiar. Had she seen him before? No, she would remember.

She nodded at him with a smile, then took the shot. How did he know that whiskey was her favorite? She walked over to him and decided to chat him up, see if she couldn’t flirt a few bucks out of him, or another drink.

“Thank you for the drink,” she said.

He nodded. “Perhaps you could tell me your name in return.”

“Scarlett,” she said. “What’s yours?”

“Darian,” he said. “Pleasure to meet a real woman in this town.”

“A real woman?” she asked, putting her hands on her hips. “What does that mean?”

“You drink whiskey,” he said admiringly. “Every other girl in here is drinking a cocktail. You can tell a lot about a girl by the kind of drink she prefers.”

“Oh please, do tell,” she invited, amused.

“Well, a cocktail says that a girl just wants to be taken care of, and she doesn’t like to get her hands dirty. A martini says that a girl will do anything for appearances, because seriously, who actually enjoys the taste of a martini?” She laughed at that. “A gin and tonic says that a girl is dry and boring and sometimes a little bitter. But a whiskey, like a scotch, says that a girl isn’t afraid of anything, that she enjoys the simple things in life, and she isn’t afraid to take care of business.”

“I see,” she said, smiling with humor. “So you actually like independent women?”

“Absolutely,” he said. “I’ll take a woman I can have an actual conversation with any day over arm candy.”

“How did you know I drink whiskey?” she asked.

“I didn’t,” he said. “It was a test of character and you passed. Therefore, I must ask you to dance.”

She had to admit, this was already the most interesting and entertaining conversation she ever had with a customer here before. The only things men usually talked to her about were how beautiful she was, or what Wall Street was doing—and oh, she couldn’t possibly understand any of it so they will explain it to her as simply as possible—or how much they hate their wives and no one would ever know if she spent the night with one of them.

“All right, I’ll dance with you,” she said. She stepped out from behind the bar, gave him her hand, and let him lead her to the floor, where they danced to a jazzy new swing song the band was playing.

The scene of the dream changed.

They were in her bed in her small apartment, naked and covered by her satin sheets, heads propped up on bent arms and facing each other. The window was open, a breeze caused her sheer curtains to lift and waft, and silvery moonlight poured in.

They lived together for months. Darian left the mob and worked at the bar as the new piano player. They were together all the time, dancing and drinking during breaks, staying late to clean the bar together because they kept stopping to kiss or tease each other. She couldn’t remember a time when she was so happy. Life was perfect.

“There’s something I want to ask you,” he said. “That night we met in the bar, I just knew you were someone special. I want every night to be just like this for the rest of my life. Will you marry me?”

Her heart leapt. “Yes! Darian, yes!” she exclaimed, throwing her arms around him.

“As soon as I get the money, I’ll buy you the ring you deserve,” he said.

“I don’t need a ring, I just need you.” She kissed him.

Suddenly, there was loud banging on the door. Scarlett and Darian turned towards the sound, startled and wondering who banged so fervently. They slipped out of bed and quickly put on enough clothes to cover themselves, then Darian went to answer the door. Before he was halfway there, a gun shot went off and blew a large hole where the handle used to be.

Darian stumble-ran backwards to the other side of the bed where Scarlett was and grabbed her.

“Come on, we have to go!” he said, pulling her toward the open window.

They climbed down the fire escape before the intruders could kick open the door to find them.

The scene changed once more.

She stood in a tiny church, wearing a simple white lace dress. She saw everything through a patterned, white lace veil. Darian, dressed in a snazzy tuxedo, stood across from her, a mixture of happiness and anxiety on his face. She was anxious too. They didn’t have very long to stay here. They had been on the run for a long time and, though they wished for this occasion to be grander and for their family members to be present, neither of them could be happier that they were finally going to be wed. Eloping was better than nothing at all, and they didn’t want to wait anymore.

“Dearly beloved,” the elderly priest began, “we are here today to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony…”

The priest went on with the sermon as Scarlett and Darian stared at each other lovingly, both of them bouncing on the balls of their feet.

“Do you, Darian, take Scarlett to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, as long as you both shall live?” the priest asked Darian.

“I do,” he vowed.

“Do you, Scarlett, take Darian to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, as long as you both shall live?” the priest asked Scarlett.

She smiled and said, “No, not only as long as we live but forever after that too.”

Darian chuckled. Even through the veil she saw tears in his eyes.

“I now pronounce you man and wife,” the priest said. “You may kiss the bride.”

Darian pulled her close, threw off the veil, and kissed her not at all chastely, causing the priest to clear his throat loudly and turn away. Then they ran out down the aisle and out the door, hand in hand.

Phoenyx opened her eyes, the dream still fresh in her mind.

What an incredibly weird dream to have right now. She had a different name in it; so had Sebastian. She felt very shocked and slightly embarrassed by the fact that she had such an intimate and girly dream about him after having only just met him. Was she really that attracted to him? Enough to dream about marrying him?

She reflected back on everything that happened in the dream. It was a fun dream, despite its weirdness. She always loved the 1920’s—at least she assumed that was the time period the dream was set in. Al Capone, why couldn’t he have made an appearance in her dream, rather than just having a mention? She wondered who those people were that had shot through the door. Too bad she couldn’t have kept dreaming to find out. Being entertained by her dreams was the only way she would get through this experience.

She peaked over at Sebastian, who was lying against the wall not too far from her. She got an inkling just then, like a sense of déjà vu. She had that dream before, hadn’t she. That was why Sebastian looked so familiar to her…

No, that couldn’t be right. Yes, she’d had parts of that dream before but the guy probably only looked like Sebastian now because she stayed up most of the night talking to him. Yeah, that was more likely. There’s no way she could have dreamt about Sebastian before meeting him. Things like that don’t happen in real life. Then again, things like someone having the ability she has don’t happen in real life either.

She shook her head, leaned back against the wall, and closed her eyes, hoping to get a bit more sleep out of what was left of the night before the others all woke up.