Page 12 of Man of His Dreams

“I think we should stop. Uh, maybe.”

“Maybe? It seems like you’re feeling good.” Scratch did a little wiggle that ground his ass against Flip’s very hard cock, making Flip groan. “Real good.”

Realizing that he was still holding Scratch against him, Flip let go and spread his arms wide. It wasn’t an easy thing to do. He wanted every inch of Scratch pressed tightly against him. “I’m trying to decide if this counts as cheating,” he admitted.

“With Ethan?”

“No, he’s absolutely past-tense for me. But tomorrow I have a date—well, I’m not sure if it’s technically a date, but it’s at least a close cousin of one—with a man I met yesterday. He’s going to show me around town. He’s a historian,” he added, as if that were somehow relevant.

Scratch’s face registered amusement. “Did you tell him that you wouldn’t go near another man?”

“Of course not. And anyway, I haven’t. You’re not even real.”

“I may be dead, but I’m as real as you are.” Scratch poked Flip hard in the belly.

“I’m dreaming you.”

“I’m in your dream, but that’s… it just makes things easier, is all.” Scratch heaved a loud sigh and rolled off of Flip, then stood on the floor. “But I don’t fool around with nobody unless they’re into it, and I guess you ain’t.”

“I am. I was. I just….” Flip made a garbled sound of frustration and covered his face with a pillow.

When he tossed the pillow aside, Scratch was still there, looking down at him with the corner of his mouth quirked. His tie was loose and his shirt rumpled; his hair had started to escape the oil or pomade or whatever he used, and soft curls were beginning to take over. He looked even more handsome when disheveled.

“Sorry,” said Flip. “You’re sort of hard up, and I’m not making any sense.”

“Feelings are feelings. And I’ve never wanted anyone to regret what we’ve done together. I still feel bad about the fellow who shot me and the woman I was in bed with at the time.” He brightened. “Tell you what. How about some music? That always improves my mood, and I ain’t played for nobody in a long time.”

“But how—” Flip stopped abruptly because there was a piano in one corner of the room. It wasn’t there in real life and hadn’t existed in his dream until now, but there it was. “Um, okay.”

Scratch sat at the piano, interlaced his hands to crack his knuckles, and gave his shoulders a shake as if to loosen them up. Then he began to play a lively tune that put Flip in mind of young women with bobbed hair and short, fringed dresses kicking up their heels. He was good, and Flip couldn’t help wiggling his toes and swaying along with him.

When Scratch finished, Flip clapped, and Scratch gave a little seated bow. “It’s called After You’re Gone. It was a big hit the year I died. I used to play it a lot. The year before, the military closed down the brothels in Storyville, so I was kinda hard up for musical work, but I found it now and then.”

“I don’t know anything about jazz, but I liked that song. Will you play another?”

Clearly pleased, Scratch put his fingers on the keys and produced a tune that sounded like it was straight out of an old noir film. “This one was written long after I died,” he said, still playing. “Blue in Green. Sounds better with a whole band—trumpet, sax, drums, bass—but it’s good like this too.”

Flip pictured Humphrey Bogart nursing a cigarette and whiskey in a bar. Maybe he was trying to crack a case, or maybe he was brooding over the femme fatale. Either way, Blue in Green was in the background. Funny how music could so easily convey a setting and mood, even without lyrics. A musician used notes the way a writer used words.

When the song was over, Scratch seemed to consider for a moment. “I’ll play one more and then I’ll let you rest. You got a date tomorrow.” He punctuated this with a ta-dah! cord on the piano before launching into a new song. Flip found this one bluesier and was delighted when Scratch started singing. The lyrics were about somewhere called Beale Street, which sounded like a hoppin’ place.

When it was over, Flip clapped again. “You have a good voice.”

“Passable. I play better than I sing.”

Scratch stood, stretched, and sauntered over. He leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss to Flip’s forehead. Then he picked up the umbrella and walked to the door. “Sleep well. Don’t wanna be too tired for—what was his name?”

“Tony Bergeron,” Flip said through a yawn. And the dream ended.

By morning the storm had blown away the hot, stifling air, leaving a chill that caused Flip to shiver before getting dressed. His dream still unusually sharp in his mind, he decided to go out for food and coffee. He’d already discovered a cute place on Ursuline Street, just a block over. It had tiled walls and very tempting pastry cases, and one table was tucked into a tight window-side niche that was perfect for people-watching.

He bundled his laptop into a case, put on a hoodie as an extra layer, and slipped into his tennis shoes. After opening his apartment door, he saw a piece of folded white paper lying on the mat. To the guy in Apt 2C, it said on the outside. That was him. He picked it up and unfolded it, squinting to read the messy cursive.

Dear neighbor,

We don’t mind your taste in music, but can you please keep it down after midnight? That piano was loud.

—Apt 1C

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