The year was 1922. Outside, the air held a sharp chill, typical for Chicago at this time of the year, but inside the nightclub it was warm, and the music played softly in the background. Small, square, wooden tables dotted the floor, and a thin veil of cigarette smoke drifted lazily over them. The lighting was dim, adding to the charismatic atmosphere that was planned out so carefully, one which drew a steady flow of regular guests. There was a simplistic elegance in the decor, which did not distract from the dancers, but rather created a dignified aura around them. There was a big difference between the strippers in the bar three blocks down, and the exotic dancers who performed here. This place had class, and the women who danced erotically here commanded the audience's utmost respect.
This evening's show was over, but the club would remain host to most of the guests for several hours more. One of the dancers was leaning on the bar, laughing and chatting amid a circle of admirers. The owner wasn't far away. Sitting casually on a stool, he sipped his drink, seemingly aloof, but closely monitoring the crowd to assure no one got out of hand. They never did though; it just wasn't that kind of place. She let her eyes drift away from the scene at the bar as she stepped down to the seating area. The amorous stares and soft-spoken invitations were met with a flashing smile, but with a quick wave of her hand, she brushed them all away. Weaving a path between tables, she continued her search, sorting through a sea of friendly faces until the one she was looking for was found. He sat alone at a table, as always, further off toward the side of the room where he was closer to the source of the music. His head bobbed almost imperceptibly, keeping time with the soft, jazzy notes. A drink rested lightly between his fingers, and the liquid inside the glass swirled in accompaniment. He came here mostly for the music; it was the one thing he truly loved. And the atmosphere here was conducive to listening to the music uninterrupted by the loud talking and raucous laughter so common in other clubs. The soft scent of perfume floated toward him, and without turning his head he knew he wouldn't be sitting alone much longer. He gave the slightest nod in acknowledgement as the dancer sat across from him. She leaned over the small table, chin resting in her hands, the corners of her mouth turned up slightly in a sly, friendly smile. She was beautiful. Her long, auburn hair fell in soft waves far past her shoulders. Two white flowers were clipped in her hair just above her left ear, sweetly fragrant gardenias, and the golden earrings that dangled demurely beneath them, teardrop shaped with an embossed rose ornamenting the bottommost point, glittered in the low light. She stared at him this way with her soft, hazel eyes, no words spoken, yet communicating in their own special way. Whatever thoughts went through his mind, he kept secreted away. She broke the silence first, speaking in soft velvet tones that could not be overheard. His side of the conversation consisted mostly of nods, half smiles, and monosyllabic replies. He never expressed the pleasure he derived from her company, though he looked forward to these moments with her. Perhaps that was part of the reason he came here every evening, besides the music, of course. Her reasons for seeking him out were really quite simple. She liked him; she liked his aloofness toward her. No foolish banter, no lines of ploy used in hope of seduction. Simple, pleasant conversation was all that they shared, and she enjoyed that for exactly what it was.
The next hour flew by quickly, and was more time than she had intended to spend. Her eyes glanced down at the creamy white petals she fingered. She had absentmindedly pulled them from her hair when the clip holding them in place worked its way loose. Dropping the fragrant blossoms, she reached across the table to give his hand a quick squeeze. It was getting late, and she knew she should go. She murmured a short goodbye as she rose from her seat, and made her way back through the maze of tables to the backstage area. She quickly gathered up her belongings, and threw on her coat. Usually she would walk home with one of the other girls, but the telltale emptiness of the room made it apparent that tonight she would be walking home alone.
As she slipped out the back door, she was greeted by a blast of wind, whose cold chill made her pull the coat tightly around herself. And as she turned the collar up around her neck, the wind caught the door behind her, slamming it shut with certain finality. It felt cold enough to be winter, though it wasn't quite that time of year yet. Still, most of the trees already lay bare in their branches. It would be winter soon enough. She walked briskly to hasten her walk home, taking a shortcut through the back alley that would save her about ten minutes time. She held her head bowed slightly against the wind, hurrying along as much as the high-heeled shoes would allow her.
Curse the wind, at least for this one night. If it hadn't been blowing so strong as to make her lower her head, she might have seen. If it hadn't been whistling so loudly, she might have heard. If it hadn't chilled her so deeply, she might have walked the main streets home. But as it was, she came to a startled, abrupt halt. There was some one standing in her path, directly in front of her, a man. A few steps more and she would have walked right into him. She raised her head up, and stepped back. He came forward. Her eyes opened wide as his hand raised up from his side. He had a knife. She took a few steps back in an effort to escape. She tried to run. He grabbed at her with his free hand. The knife was held high for a fleeting moment before it was plunged into her throat. She felt it rip through as it was pulled down, twisted, then pulled down further. And she felt herself falling. Fleeing footsteps echoed hollowly in her ears as she lay on the ground, a river of her own blood flooding down around her.
Her eyes were open only a slit when she saw some one kneeling in front of her, a policeman come too late. The last sight she saw on this earth was the look of pained distress on his face, as he reached out, taking her shoulders gently with shaking hands, trying to raise her up. Her head fell back as the last flicker of life left her body, and he laid her back down. Her head fell to the side in a lifeless movement, and her long, auburn hair, now soaked with blood, fell away from her face, revealing a golden earring that glittered in the moonlight, a drop of blood giving color to the single rose that adorned it.
The music had stopped playing. Only a few guests still remained, most of them already pulling on their winter coats in anticipation of the cold weather outside. His glass had long been empty, and he gave it a final push towards the middle of the table in dismissal. Like the other guests, he rose from his seat to put on his coat. The club would be closing in a few minutes, and, as usual, he would be among the last to leave. He glanced down at the table for anything he might have left behind. Two white flowers caught his eye, and he picked one up absentmindedly, turning it in his fingers, savoring the softness of the petals and the exotic fragrance permeating from it. He let it drop from his fingers, and it fell back to the table, resting next to the other blossom that had carelessly been left behind. He turned to leave, barely one step away from the table when he hesitated, then turned back. He carefully picked up the two blossoms, and, smiling, he gently deposited them in his pocket.